


Zhombies of London

by anantipodean



Series: Vampyre [2]
Category: DCU (Comics), Impulse (Comics), Robin (Comics), Superboy (Comics), Young Justice (Comics)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-20
Updated: 2018-03-20
Packaged: 2019-04-05 00:56:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 33
Words: 74,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14032629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anantipodean/pseuds/anantipodean
Summary: Originally posted as girl_starfish on livejournal 2005-2006 (and it really shows its age).Kon arrives in London on research, only to discover a very suspicious outbreak of zhombies. What is a hapless American to do?





	1. Kon hates London.

**Author's Note:**

> A few days ago, I got a notification of a spam comment on a livejournal post, reminding me that I wanted to get Vampyre and its sequels off livejournal before it inevitably self-destructs. I'm posting the story entirely unchanged. There's a lot I would change if I was writing this today, but I'm making the decision to leave it as it is, questionable characterisation, clunky sentences and all.

Kon had been in London a day and he already hated it. 

For a start, the journey by ferry to Dover was uncomfortable in the extreme, with strong winds, large winds, screaming children and simpering romantic couples. Second, the porter had managed to put his luggage on the wrong train. It was now somewhere in Cambridge, but the South Eastern Railway assured him it would be found and returned. Until such a time, Kon was dependant on the contents of his small valise and the goodwill of the matron of his hotel. 

Such goodwill turned out to be non existent. The landlady made it clear that she expected nothing but sudden death a suitable excuse for missing an appointment, and Kon was hardpressed to convince her to let him have his room at all. She finally gave him the key with an admonition to be more punctual from then on. 

Minutes after Kon left the hotel in search of dinner it started to rain, and now it was dark out. There didn’t seem to be anyone on the streets, and Kon had lost his way among the narrow twisting by-streets. 

At least, Kon thought philosophically, as he tucked up his collar against the drizzle, it couldn’t get much worse than this. He’d been dreading London, but if this was the sum of his troubles, he’d have escaped lightly. London was where Drake and company were based, and although Kon hoped against hope that Drake was still in Europe, with him Beth or Bartholemew and he didn’t want to think about that. The important thing was that he might not encounter them. He had to go to the Wayne Foundation library, of course, the one reason he’d come to London at all. But surely all the bad luck accumulated on this one day had to count for something, and given the choice between the rain currently working its way in cold trickles down his neck, and an encounter with Drake?

There was something to be said for the invigorating tendencies of a brisk English rain shower. 

Kon stopped. All the roads looked the same and he couldn’t tell if one was familiar because he’d walked past it on the way to the hotel, or while searching vainly for the hotel. There was no point in going on -- how did he know he wasn’t just walking further away? Kon made out the outline of a steeple and turned his steps towards it. With any luck he could take shelter there for the night and set out again in the morning. 

The main gates to the churchyard were locked but there was a sidegate placed ajar. Kon trudged down the roundabout path, his thoughts on his hoped-for shelter, and he only noticed the sudden flurry of movement to one side as it was almost upon him. 

He turned, just in time to get hit full on the head with the blunt end of a shovel. 

“Ow,” Kon said, staggering back more from surprise than from pain. “What in the b----- was that for?”

His vision swum, and Kon had a shadowy image of someone slim and untidy looking very stricken. “My humblest apologies. I thought you were --” The voice trailed off. “Mr Kent,” Bart said, sounding as miserable as Kon felt. “Oh, I am sorry.”

\---

They sat on one of the pews inside the church, Kon holding the handkerchief Bart had insisted on preparing for him as an impromptu coldpress to his head while Bart wrung out Kon’s coat and apologised incessantly. 

“Don’t know what I was thinking -- I mean, your carriage as you walk, obviously you’re alive. And then there was the complete absence of decaying odour and all of that -- I really am sorry, Kon. Mr Kent. Conner. I -- I don’t suppose you’d want me to call you Conner, would you? Mr Kent, then. And there’s your appearance oh, and the fact you were breathing --”

Kon ignored the ache in his head and focused on the one part of the conversation that made sense. “Kent will do fine, Mr . . . ?”

He looked so abject, that for a moment Kon almost forgot how much he had wronged him. “Allen.”

“Ah.” His headache had almost receded. “So Luthor was right about that.”

“We knew he’d found out something about -- the family,” Bart said, spreading Kon’s jacket out to dry over the end of the pew, and seating himself at the opposite end of it from Kon. He was as bedraggled and wet as Kon himself, and somehow, though Kon would have rather been in the outermost Artic regions than in conversation with Bart, he hadn’t quite managed to make himself leave. “Max sent me away with instructions to stay hidden, and then a fortnight later I got the news that he was . . .” He trailed off. 

If Kon inquired too closely, he was going to end up forgiving him. “Is that why you, ah -- the dress, and everything . . .”

Bart’s eyes were full and yellow in the shadows. Beth’s eyes, but not Beth. “It’s part of it,” he hedged, eyes slipping down in a gesture that Kon would have found charming on Beth, but was oddly disconcerting when matched with Bart’s untidily cut hair and suit. “That’s how it started, pretty much. I really am sorry.”

“You keep saying that.” Kon allowed some of his irritation from his head-pain to seep into his response. “You could have told me.”

“I tried to. I thought I had until you went and hit Tim for cheating me of my virtue.” 

Kon flushed at the memory. “I feel badly enough at allowing myself to be so deceived. Must you parade the full extent of my foolishness before me?”

“I didn’t mean --” Bart looked stricken. “I never, ever, wanted to hurt you. Tim neither. But he said it was best after the way you reacted to him, and I didn’t want -- I valued your company too much to want to lose it.”

“So you let me believe in a relationship based on a lie?” Kon glared furiously. “I was in love with you!”

There was a long moment of silence as they regarded each other. 

Bart shut his eyes. “I still a--”

“No! Will you keep on with this, even here?” Kon interrupted, horrified. “We’re in a church--” he grappled for words, unable to express his shock. 

Bart’s mouth tightened, and he stood, grabbing his coat. “Of course. How stupid of me to forget. I shall take my unholy self out of this sacred place so as not to offend you further.”

Kon heard the door shut behind him, and counted to ten. Breathed. Wondered why he was letting Bart worry him so, and then decided that, after all, no one deserved to be outside on a night so miserable. 

“Bar -- Mr Allen! Wait!” 

Kon scanned the churchground for movement. The rain had not abated any and it was hard to make anything out in the murky darkness of the churchyard. Eventually he spotted movement in a shady corner over by the wall and made his way over. 

“You’ll catch your death of cold,” he said, halting at the edge of the path. “We don’t want that, do we?”

This statement was met by absolute silence. 

Kon sighed. “Look, we may have quarrelled, but that’s no reason for you to take on so. It’s wet and cold and there’s room for both of us back in the church. I’m sure we can manage to be civil to each other, for as long as it takes for morning to arrive.” He took a step forward. “Come on, then.”

The figure turned. Void, empty eyes met Kon’s as the figure swayed unsteadily towards him, heavy with the thick smell of rot. One of the arms it held out towards Kon was clearly broken, and the American couldn’t stifle an exclamation of dismay as the thing moved closer.

It was far from the most fearsome thing he’d encountered, but its unexpected appearance and something pitiable in its aspect held him still while it ambled towards him. The thought occurred to him that he should probably move or get out of its way but that message did not seem to be getting through to his body and he could only stare as the thing stepped closer --

And met the blunt end of Bart’s shovel. 

“Get back!” The viciousness and suddeness of Bart’s attack was just as surprising, and Kon continued to stare, astonished, as Bart sent the creature reeling back with several more blows from the shovel and a well-placed kick. The thing was finally beaten back into the grave it had apparently crawled from and Bart began shovelling dirt back over top of it, pausing occasionally to hit a roving limb with the shovel. “And this time, stay there!”

This put a lot of that evening’s happenings into perspective. Kon rubbed his forehead ruefully. “Does this happen often?”

“A couple of times a night,” Bart said. “This one’s the freshest, he’s usually the first to start things off. It’ll be Nell next. She’s over by the oak.”

“Ah,” said Kon turning to squint through the darkness at the shadowy outline of the tree. “Was she an acquaintance?”

“She looks like a Nell,” Bart said vaguely, adding a last shovel of dirt for good measure. 

“You’re giving them names?” Kon repeated, incredulous. “Just how long have you been here?”

He was taken aback by the fierceness of Bart’s response. “It’s not as though I don’t have places I could go! I just happen to not want to -- It’s none of your business!” Swinging the shovel over his shoulder he stomped angrily in the direction of the oak. 

Kon followed at a safe distance. “At least tell me that you’re not actually living here.” At Bart’s continued silence he sighed. “Surely, you don’t need to remain here because of the zhombies. There are many ways of permanently dealing with them --”

“What did you call them?” Bart turned to look sharply at Kon. 

“Zhombies.” Kon shrugged. “You know. The undead.”

“Another one of your American innovations?” Bart asked. “Our undead are usually better at knowing when they’re beaten.”

“Burning them is usually the way to go with zhombies,” Kon said. “I’m surprised you haven’t already tried it.”

“In this weather?” Bart raised an eyebrow through the wet hair plastered to his forehead. 

There was a near constant trickle of water down the back of Kon’s boots. “Ah. Point taken. It’s been like this a while then?”

“All week. Still, what can you do?” Bart stepped forward with his shovel as the ground of the grave they were watching slowly began to move. 

“Tried salt?”

Bart stopped beating the ground and stared at Kon. “Salt?”

Kon shrugged. “It’s standard Voduin. What, you don’t know?”

“Not everyone can have the benefit of a college education,” Bart said tartly. “You don’t happen to have any salt on you now, I suppose?”

Kon reached inside his jacket. “Call me superstitious,” he said with a shrug. “Anti-clockwise, and you make a circle like so.”

Bart watched closely as the ground ceased moving, Nell evidently returning to her unquiet slumber. “Mr Kent, you are quite the source of useful information tonight.”

“This wouldn’t be the first time I’ve had to deal with something of this manner,” Kon said as they continued on to place circles on two more graves and finished with a loose circuit of the churchyard. “This would explain why there was no one on the streets. Been going on long?”

“This is the second week,” Bart said. “We’re puzzled. The Foundation got it contained relatively quickly, and they’ve explained it as a sort of plague -- and it seems to act a lot like one, but nothing much seems to keep the victims down for long. Besides cremation of course, and until the Foundation is sure what effects the smoke or ashes might have, they’re reluctant to allow it.”

Kon nodded, wondering how to procede with the conversation. “I have to visit the Foundation to make use of the library.”

“You should mention you have experience when you do. Try and talk to one of the Associates -- I think Grayson is in house at the moment. The Fellows are rot, they don’t know anything. They’re just there for appearances.” Bart said blythly. “Oh, look. The rain has stopped.”

Kon held out his hand. “So it has.” He watched as Bart wrung out his coat. “What are you going to do now?”

The look he received was startled, almost hopeful. “You wish to know?”

“No,” Kon said flatly. “I don’t. Frankly, I wouldn’t much mind if I never saw you again.” 

“You really . . . ?” 

It was becoming harder to see Beth in Bart. Kon could concentrate, and make out her features in him, but it was quickly becoming Bart’s smile, Bart’s eyes, and it was just one more thing he’d lost. The hurt gave Kon the conviction to continue. “You lied to me,” he said. “You lied, you made me believe in something that didn’t exist and I can’t even remember now -- Do you know how much that hurts?”

“I never -- I’m sorry --”

“You can say that all you want, it won’t change anything!” Kon finished. “I don’t know you, anything about you. I don’t think I care to know you.”

“You’ve made your feelings on the matter abundantly clear.” Bart said tightly, straightening his tie. “I will try not to bother you again.” 

“Good.” Strangely, saying all of that didn’t make Kon feel any better. He watched as Bart walked down the road. In seconds he would be invisible amongst the shadows, completely out of sight -- could Kon really let him go like this?

“Mr Allen? One last thing.”

Bart paused. “I can scarcely imagine what more you could have to say,” he said. “But if you insist, so be it.”

Kon joined him in the middle of the road. “I won’t pretend to like your company,” he said. “But as it happens, I have lost my way. If you could point me in the direction of Weaver’s Lane, I would be grateful.”

Bart looked at him a long moment before replying. His eyes, inhuman eyes, were light in the darkness. “It’s long,” he said. “You’d better follow me.”


	2. In which our intrepid hero's day gets even worse.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kon meets Roberta, the barmaid.

Kon stumbled downstairs at 2 in the afternoon in search of coffee, only to be met by the stern glare of his landlady and the information that she did not approve of young lady visitors so early in the morning and that if Kon wished to have guests, she would like some notification, thank you very much. Coffee? She held no truck with that nonsense. 

Kon was forced to go elsewhere in search of his affliction. He ate in a nearby restaurant and then got directions to the Foundation by omnibus. Refreshed by the caffeine, and cheered by such famous sights as Nelson’s column, the facade of the British Museum, and Big Ben, Kon approached the Foundation Building -- a mock Gothic affair in grey brick and gargoyles -- in good spirits. 

It was not to last. 

“But I have a letter of introduction,” Kon insisted. “I told you, my luggage was put on the wrong train . . . Look, I’m sure that Prof Harper would have written. If you’d just take a look --”

“I’m not currently at leisure to search through the many correspondences the Foundation receives for one letter,” the brisk, dark-haired man currently at the desk told Kon with an air of great impatience. He was obviously from the same school as Drake, sharp and sarcastic and if it hadn’t been for their differences in height, build and age, Kon might have thought they were twins. “We happen to be rather busy at present with a situation, so I reccommend that once you have located this letter of yours, you make an appointment to view the collection. Until then . . .”

“This situation wouldn’t be related to a certain infestation?” Kon hinted delicately. “I can help. I’ve had experience --”

“Thank you for the offer but we have everything well in hand.”

Kon had been naive enough to assume no one could do vaguely patronising like Drake, he was now beginning to wonder if it wasn’t a characteristic of Foundation members. “That was not the impression Mr Allen gave me when I encountered him in a cemetery last night,” he persisted. 

For the first time in the conversation, the dark haired man paused. “Mr Allen?”

Kon nodded. “I’m sure he’d vouch for me.”

“That remains to be seen. While Mr Allen’s word alone is not sufficient grounds for entry into the Foundation, I will take his advice into consideration -- do you have a number where he can be reached?”

Kon shook his head. He hadn’t asked, Bart hadn’t offered. When they’d parted last night, it was with the intent of parting forever. 

“Not even an address or whereabouts? Well, you could at least tell me where you encountered him. Thank you, Mr Kent. Now, if you run into Mr Allen again, or find your letter, you’re welcome to return.”

He should have known better than to expect any organisation that employed Drake to be helpful, Kon thought angrily. “Salt.”

“I beg your pardon?” The man looked up in polite surprise. 

“The surest ways of ending the scurge of the zhombie is via salt, applied in a counter-clockwise ring to its grave or resting place, or fire.”

The man laughed politely. “Ah, this must be a novel American superstition. You are aware of course, Mr Kent, that we are a society of sceptics?”

“Then I must ask to speak to an Associate,” Kon said. 

“Richard Grayson, at your service,” the man replied briskly. “Good day, Mr Kent.”

“Typical British Bull-headedness! He didn’t even want to listen!” Kon bemoaned the day’s events. “So now I’m stuck until the Railway returns my bags and to make things worse, when I returned to my room, I received word that a young lady had come by to visit me, and left a message that she would return in the evening.”

The waitress leaned over Kon’s table to check the clock above the bar. “Oh dear -- look at the time! You’ll have missed her.”

“That’s the point,” Kon said gloomily, studying the waitress’s neckline -- if it could be considered a neckline. 

“Woman trouble?” 

Kon laughed. “The only young lady I know in London is no lady,” he said, bitterly. “Let’s just leave it at that.”

She patted his shoulder. “You sound as though you could do with another drink.” 

“Please.”

“Be right back.” She swayed towards the bar. 

Kon watched her go. Forward, of course, but in a busy bar like this, what more could you expect? The room was thick with tobacco smoke, and noisy with the boisterous shouts and calls for more ale of the workers who made up the clientale. Kon felt very out of place in his travelling suit, but until his suitcase was returned to him, what choice did he have? As it was, the waitress was the only person to have spoken to him so far. 

He nodded his thanks as the waitress set down a tankard in front of him. “Thank you.”

She lingered by his table. “Yank, are you? Sight-seeing?”

“Business,” Kon said. “Not that I’m having much luck with that.”

“That’s right, you said as much, dint you.” The waitress was sympathetic. “Your luck might improve. Who knows? You might find yourself a real English rose to fall in love with.”

“With my luck, I’d settle for finding a girl,” Kon grumbled, studying the waitress’s neckline again. “I don’t suppose you’re free, are you?”

She laughed, her voice low and amused. “I am not what you’re looking for, Mr Kent.”

Kon froze.

He really should have seen the smirk. “You?”

“If you’d be so kind to lower your voice? I am trying to work here.” With a smile, Drake lifted a tankard from the tray of a passing waitress and sat down at Kon’s table. 

Kon, horrified, looked around quickly to see if this was as observed by anyone. “What are you doing?”

“Establishing my cover,” Drake said, toasting Kon with his tankard. “Congratulations. You just bought me a drink.” 

Kon was rather less than impressed. “Are you mad? People will see us together -- they’ll think I like you.”

“I hope so,” Drake said, taking a sip of his drink. “I’m trying to cultivate an air of availability -- oh, do stop making that face. This is strictly business.”

Kon took another mouthful of drink -- he needed it. “Dare I ask what manner of business?”

“Why Mr Kent! What kind of woman do you take me for?” Drake was enjoying this -- at Kon’s expense. “I am shocked and hurt that you would imply such at thing.”

That was all the encouragement Kon needed to pull himself together. He would not give Drake the pleasure of laughing at him again. “So, you’re a -- a -- a female impersonator, then?”

“Occasionally, if the situation calls for it.”

Kon looked at the busy bar and back at Drake. “And this situation does?”

Drake had heretofore chosen to lean back against his seat at an angle that did everything to prove how well made his costume was, but at Kon’s words he leaned over the table toward Kon. “You probably not aware of this, but we have an unfortunate zhombie infestation,” he confided in a whisper. “I’m trying to find information about where they came from.”

“In this place?”

“Three victims were regulars of this pub,” Tim explained. “Within a week of each other, all three met with serious accident and died. One fell while working -- he was a builder. The others, one was stabbed in what was written off as a failed robbery attempt, and the third fell -- or was pushed -- in front of an automobile. Nothing to connect the deaths was suspected -- until we had three seperate outbreaks of undead.”

“Your precious Foundation didn’t seem to realise they were facing zhombies,” Kon said with rancour. “Grayson wrote the whole thing off as superstition.”

“Well, of course, he did. We do have a reputation to maintain,” Drake said, straightening his blouse. “If I’d thought you would be in London now, I’d have put your name on the inside-list.” He looked curiously at Kon. “How did you know about our little problem?”

Kon shrugged. “I ran into Mr Allen last night,” he said. “And as usual when I associate with either of you, undead creatures followed. As it happens, I--”

“You saw Bart?” Kon was not expecting the cool, collected Drake to interrupt him with such vehemence. Or to grip his arm so tightly. “Where is he?”

“I didn’t care to ask,” Kon said, frowning. “Do you mind . . . ?”

Drake didn’t let go immediately, looking hard at Kon. It was amazing, but even while generously endowed and wearing make-up, Drake still managed to intimidate. “If you see him again, tell me. At once.”

“Is he in trouble?” Kon asked then remembered he didn’t care.

“Let’s just say that there has been some developments in the zhombie case that he isn’t aware of,” Drake said carefully. “He could get in trouble if he tries to tackle things by himself.”

“If I see him I’ll pass the message on,” Kon said. “But what is stopping you from telling him? The two of you were so close . . .” In ways that Kon really didn’t want to think about. “Did you perchance quarrel?”

“I’m not at leisure to discuss the situation,” Drake said coldly. “Just give him the message, Kent.”

“Nice to see that wearing a dress does not make you any less bossy or sanctimonious,” Kon complained. 

“As I believe I have mentioned before, I strive for consistency.”

“There is consistency between your pose of a proper gentleman and your current guise?”

“I am excellent in everything I do. I pride myself on my attention to detail -- as I’m sure you noticed.” Drake leaned back at a provocative angle and grinned at Kon. “Rather magnificent, aren’t they?”

Kon coloured. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“Oh? That would explain how you were able to recognise me so quickly.” Drake jiggled at him cheerfully. “Of course, you might have noticed sooner had you been looking at my face --”

Kon slammed his drink down. “Good evening, Mr Drake. I am not staying here to be mocked by you any longer.”

“It’s Roberta when I’m working,” Drake corrected him. “And you’re staying long enough to give me your address. If we’re going to be working together, I’m going to need to be able to contact you.”

Kon stared. “What in b----- gave you the idea we were working together?” he demanded. “I want nothing more to do with you and your . . . disturbing habits --”

“I did get an impression of that sort,” Drake told him flatly. “However, as it is your fault that I am currently working solo, I think it is your clear duty to either see that I have a new partner or restore my old one. As you are unaware of Bart’s location, I can see only one way to rectify the situation.”

“You’re mad,” Kon said. “Quite mad. I refuse categorically --”

“We’ve already proven we work well together,” Drake continued persuasively. “And how often does one get the chance to view zhombies in the flesh?”

“More often than you’d think,” Kon said. “I’ll pass, thank you very much.” He stood.

“Wait,” Drake said, seriously, putting a hand on Kon’s arm to stop him. “There is the strong probability that our little infestation was caused deliberately,” he said, voice carefully low. “Can you really walk away and do nothing? Dick’s confident he has everything in hand, but I rather suspect that very soon we may need all the help we can get. Please, Conner. There are innocent lives at stake.”

Kon wavered, but a glance at Drake’s sombre expression and he was convinced. “Fine,” he said reluctantly. “My address.”

“W-------?” Drake mused, looking over the address Kon had scrawled down for him. “That’s not very convenient at all.”

“Pardon me for not considering your schedule while making my arrangements to stay in London,” Kon said caustically and tried not to wince as Drake carefully tucked the note into his bosom. 

“No matter, it can be easily remedied. I shall be over to collect you and your things at ten.”

“What?”

“No, you’re right. Eleven, I think. Don’t worry, Mr Kent. You’ll be guranteed privacy, and my housekeeper does an excellent creme brulee.”

“I’m quite happy where I am,” Kon protested.

“Of course you’re not. Don’t worry -- it’s no trouble, and I don’t expect any recompense. I shall see you tomorrow.”

“Anything else?” Kon said, recovering enough from the shock to be surly.

“Well, you’re not going to leave without tipping me, surely?”


	3. In which (as though it wasn't already obvious) Kon discovers he is doomed.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kon receives a female visitor.

Kon woke the next morning to a mild hangover, which was bad enough, another lecture from his landlady, which was becoming repetitive, and the knowledge that he’d somehow let Drake talk him into staying with him, which was the worst of the lot. How had he been so foolish? He would just have to ignore his heaving stomach and tell Drake firmly that he was fine where he was, Kon thought wretchedly, bent over his cup of weak tea and he listened to the landlady give her opinion of half-dressed hussies who called on gentlemen unattended at any hour of the evening.

As it happened, Kon didn’t even get a word in.

“Morning, Kent,” Drake breezed in, looking dapper and spick in a well-cut suit. “Got your things together?”

“Drake,” Kon acknowledged, gloomily. “Look, about your offer of accomodations. I --”

“What’s all this, then?” His landlady looked affronted. “You better not be thinking of skipping out, Mr Kent. I’ve got a signed contract --”

“A lot of good it will do you,” Drake pulled himself up. “I’ve heard all about how poorly you’ve treated Mr Kent. What happened to breakfast and dinner included? And this room is hardly of a standard fit for a gentleman to inhabit -- is that mould in that corner there?”

The landlady gave it her best, but she was no match for Drake. She was beaten down verbally until she agreed to cancel Kon’s accomodation without any further charge and even helped Kon put the meagre contents of his valise together. By the time Kon got downstairs, Drake had hailed a cab and was giving the cabbie the directions for his house.

“I appreciate your concern,” Kon said “But I don’t --”

“Of course you do. You can thank me later,” Drake waved at him vaguely. He was in conversation with the landlady who had become a lot more amiable with the appearance of a five pound note.

“What was that about?” Kon asked as Drake joined him in the cab and they set off.

“I assume you’ll want your mail and any visitors forwarded,” Drake shrugged.

Kon narrowed his eyes. “You think Bart will come back, don’t you?”

“It’s a possibility,” Drake shrugged. “As it happens, he’s probably far more likely to try to contact you than he is me.”

“You are sadly mistaken. In our last encounter, I made it clear that I wanted nothing more to do with him -- a sentiment that I should mention extends to y--”

“Did you now? Excellent.” Drake appeared well pleased by this revelation. “Yes, that should do nicely.”

“Are you even listening to me?” Kon asked, bewildered.

“Of course, of course. Ah, here we are.” Drake leaned out of the window to call to the cabbie. “Yes, just here will do fine.”

The cab rolled away, leaving them standing in front of a very smart townhouse indeed. Fashionable mock-gothic facade, and a decent size -- Kon could already tell this was a considerable step up from his previous location. “This is yours?”

“Left to me by my father,” Drake said. “Hello. What’s this then?”

There was a grubby kid loitering by the door. He had a scruffy pile of newspapers with him and was well decorated with ink smudges. “Go’ news for yer,” he said in a thick accent, wiping his nose on the back of his sleeve. “You wanned t’know when yer girlfriend woz back, right?”

Drake paused. “She’s returned to the flat?”

“Not ‘er, but the gen’leman wif ‘er -- you know, ‘er bruver. ‘E must of come back last night ‘cos ‘e woz there ‘is mornin’. Bought a paper, ‘e did.”

“Excellent. Keep me informed.” There was a flash of silver as Drake tossed a couple of coins to the child, and turned to Kon. “This is shaping up to be a most fruitful morning. Let’s go in, shall we?” He took Kon’s valise and strode through the doors.

The interior lived up to the promise of the exterior, by being just as smartly furnished, adorned with tasteful wallpaper, fashionable artwork, and many bookshelves. It was exactly the sort of house that Drake would possess, and for some reason, Kon found this fact disconcerting. How much of this was pose, how much was real?

“After much thought, I decided you’d prefer the privacy of a room on the first floor -- you’ll have your own key for the backdoor so you can come and go at your leisure,” Drake explained, waving Kon into what was a study with a simple cot bed set up within. “Most of the actual bedrooms are on the second floor, but I wasn’t sure you’d enjoy such close quarters.”

Kon ignored the smirk. “This will more than do. I . . . thank you.” He was not expecting Drake to be so thoughtful. It was most off-putting.

“Settle in. I thought we’d eat about 2, which should give you enough time to get acquainted with the house. I think the library will be of particular interest.”

“I’m sure it will,” Kon said. “What was that about before? You pay that kid to spy on Bart for you?”

“Of course not,” Drake said coolly. “That would be under-handed.”

Kon was not convinced. “So now you’ve found him, are you going to pay a visit?”

“Give it a bit of time, Kent. Don’t want Bart to know I’m spying on him.”

“But -- you just --”

“Kent,” Drake said, leaning in to squeeze Kon’s arm. “Do you trust me?”

Kon resisted the urge to back away. “Not as far as I could kick you.”

“I’m glad we understand each other,” Drake said, letting go of Kon with a smooth smile. “Now -- what is it?”

A woman of grandmotherly appearance appeared in the doorway. “There’s a young woman waiting in the drawing room to speak to you, sir. This would be Mr Kent?”

Drake raised an eyebrow meaningfully at Kon. “Mr Kent, may I present Mrs Mac, the finest housekeeper in London. Her toffee pudding is superb.”

The old woman laughed. “Go on, you flatterer.” Her tone was fond and familiar, and she turned to Kon with a polite smile. “I hope you’ll be comfortable here, Mr Kent. If you need anything, just let me know. Tim tells me you’re partial to a cup of coffee in the mornings?”

“It would be much appreciated,” Kon told her warmly.

“We’d better not keep our guest waiting,” Drake said. “The drawing room, you said?” He strode through the house confidently, Kon hurrying to catch up.

There was something almost anticipatory in his stance as Drake threw open the drawing room door. “About time you stopped sulking and -- oh.” Short pause. “You’re not B -- Beth.”

“Sorry, mon. Should I have left a card?”

Kon knew that voice. “I don’t believe it,” he said, following Drake through the door. “Anita?”

Anita laughed, returned Kon’s greeting hug. “Kon. It’s good to see you, mon.”

Kon laughed. It felt so good to have a friend here at last, someone he could rely on. “You would not believe how happy I am to see you right now,” he said, letting go of her reluctantly.

“You say dat now,” she scolded him, straightening her skirts. “I tell you, I had such a time finding you, I was beginning to think you were avoiding me.”

“That was you?” Kon took Anita’s wrap for her. “I had no idea. When the landlady told me there was a young woman visiting, I thought --”

Anita laughed. “Typical, Kon. Always too handsome fer yer own good, mon.” She patted his cheek affectionately as she turned to greet Drake. “So dis must be Mr Drake?”

“A pleasure,” Drake was smooth and charming as ever, bowing as he took Anita’s hand. “Pleased to meet you Miss . . . ?”

“Fite,” Kon said. “Anita Fite. Her Father’s an Associate Professor of our University.” He couldn’t stop grinning. “What are you doing here, Anita? Don’t tell me your father’s also here on research.”

“Nah, mon. It’s just me.” Anita took the chair Kon pulled out for her, peeling off her gloves. “I’m here to attend Madam King-Smith’s Finishing School for Young Woman of Quality.”

“A finishing school? Really?” Kon eyed her. Anita was wearing a dress of the latest fashion, and as she removed her hat, Kon could see that her hair, usually worn loose or gathered in a ponytail, had been pinned up in dozens of tiny curls. “Well, you look the part. How is it?”

“H---,” Anita said, with a sigh. “So many rules! Don’t make eyecontact with a man you haven’t been introduced too, don’t eat with the wrong fork, don’t practice curses before lunch --”

“Practice curses?” Drake raised an eyebrow. “That’s a new one for me.”

“Anita’s in training to be a Voduin priestess,” Kon said proudly. “She’s pretty good.”

“Vodouin?” Drake sat down in the chair opposite. “Isn’t that interesting.”

Kon caught his meaning immediately. “Watch what you say. Anita doesn’t have anything to do with that. She’s a young woman of principles --”

“Thank you, Kon. As it happens, I’m not directly involved with da current situation in London. However, I did sense a disturbance of magical means, and if I’m not wrong, dere is strong Voduin being worked right now. Dat’s why I’m so glad you’re here -- I went to dat b------ Foundation with a warning, and all I got for my trouble was to be laughed at. Benighted English b------- -- think having a proper headquarters and a lot of money makes dem so grand.”

Kon bit his tongue. It was hard not to laugh at Drake’s expression. “Anita, Mr Drake is from the Foundation.”

“Is he? I thought I didn’t like him.”

Drake managed a sarcastic smile. “Charming. I don’t suppose you’d care to elaborate on this . . . magical disturbance of yours?”

“Not to you, I don’t.” Anita patted Kon’s arm. “Kon, you and me are going to track down the ones behind these zhombies.”

“We are?” said Kon.

“Of course,” Anita said. “I’m not allowed out of the school alone after 6. I had to sneak out to visit last night -- and you weren’t even home, mon.” She paused to glare at Kon. “As it happens, I can’t stay -- I told da Mistresses I was going shopping, and if I don’t return with a suitably awful pair of shoes, I shall be in trouble.” She paused to reflect on this injustice a moment, then held out a card to Kon. “Da address of my school, mon. Make an appointment to meet da Headmisstress, and introduce yourself as a friend of my father’s. Do dat country-boy thing you do -- dey’ll eat you up.”

“Ha ha,” said Kon. He wasn’t sure he wanted to meet these school misstresses of Anita’s. Moreover, he especially did not like the speculative look Drake was now giving him.

“Walk me to da cab, Kon?” Anita said, collecting her gloves and hat. “Mr Drake. I’d say it was nice meeting you . . .”

“Miss Fite,” Drake was at his smoothest and most charming, as he handed Anita her wrap. “Perhaps I can endeavour to convince you to rethink your opinion of the Foundation?”

“You’ll have to try harder den dat,” Anita told him, taking Kon’s arm. “Shall we go, Kon?”

“You were very rude to him,” Kon said, as they left the house. “I’m not saying it wasn’t deserved, I’m just surprised.”

“Dey were very rude to me,” Anita said darkly. “Elitist twits, all of dem -- it’s cos I’m a female, and not one of dere precious English roses, I’ll wager.”

“I’m sure its as much to do with the fact you’re an uncivilised American as sex or race -- they turned me away too.” Kon helped Anita into the cab. “You’ll be all right?”

“Kon, you sweetheart. Come here, so I can hit you.” Anita arranged her skirts, and took her fan from Kon. “Ah, it wasn’t a complete surprise. I’ve heard things about the Foundation --” Anita eyed the cab-driver, then beckoned Kon closer. “Dere’s a club I know, for people dat didn’t make the precious Foundation’s standards. People like us.”

Kon raised an eyebrow. Anita was one of the few people he trusted with the secret of his origins. “That didn’t take you long,” he said. “How long’ve you been here?”

“Long enough to know that I will be only to glad to leave this g------- place.” Anita sighed, then patted Kon’s arm. “Anyway, you must come. I’ll introduce you to my friend. He’s part-vampyre, and an absolute sweetheart. You’ll love him.”

“Ah --” Kon froze. It couldn’t be --

“What’s got you, mon? You’re looking like somebody just charlied on your new boots.”

“This friend of yours,” Kon said carefully. “Is he -- I’m sorry, I had a bad experience with a part-vampyre recently and I’m not anxious to repeat the situation --”

“Oh, you don’t have to worry about a thing, mon. Bartholemew is lovely.” Anita nodded to the cabbie and he cracked his whip, sending the horses ambling down the road.

Kon watched her go bleakly. He was, it seemed, quite doomed.


	4. Kon discovers a whole new meaning to the word 'doomed.'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anita takes Kon to her club.

From the moment the door shut behind Kon he was concious of being an invader in a strange world. The soft scent of perfume rested upon the air and the whisper of soft, feminine voices could be heard from behind the closed doors. He stood in the hallway, gaping at the ornaments, china and wallpaper, a cluster of so many floral designs that Kon wasn’t sure whether he was in hall way or a garden. As the bored maidservant that answered the door led Kon down the hallway, a couple of students passed them, blushing at Kon’s arrival, and giggling as he passed. 

No one spoke, and Kon found the entire experience quite unnerving. 

Finally he was shown in to a drawing room, a room that’s decorations could be no more aptly summarised than by the word ‘genteel.’ It was a distinctly feminine room, but feminine in an old lady type way rather than a fashionable way, cluttered with mismatched ornaments, keepsakes and posies, and every item of furniture in the room was festooned with an intricately embroidered cover. There was not a single bare surface in the room. 

The maidservant announced that Madam would be along shortly, and Kon nodded thanks. He hesitantly checked the clock above the fireplace, and tugged at his collar. The drawing room was suffocating. He was used to ladies' rooms, of course, having made his share of friends among his lecturers daughters, but all that chintz? Rarely had he been in a room so relentlessly feminine; the delicacy made him feel akin to a bull in a china shop.

The Headmistress, when she made her appearance, was just as overwhelming. A woman in what was politely termed her prime, she greeted Kon with a stately bow and all the regality of a queen. She wasn’t unhandsome, but there was a sharpness about her that Kon found very off-putting. “You would be Mr Kent? Miss Fite mentioned you might call.” She tapped a neat envelope with the Carnegie seal on it with the end of her fan. “I believe Mr Fite thought it likely that your paths might cross while in London as he has written a letter of introduction for you. You’re a colleague of his, is that not so?”

Kon agreed that this was so, and thus began an interrogation of Kon’s history and motives that lasted fully three quarters of an hour. Just as Kon was beginning to despair of ever escaping from her, the Headmistress announced him a charming specimen of colonial masculinity and that he had good teeth. Kon felt oddly like livestock as she praised his broad shoulders then read him a list of rules he needed to observe when taking Miss Fite out. 

This ended with a strong admonition that Miss Fite was at no time to leave his sight, and that Kon must take the utmost care in location and choice of entertainment. 

“Our students are delicate flowers,” Madam King-Smith used the royal ‘we’ as though it were her right. “Care must be taken to cultivate their sensitive, sheltered minds. I’m sure you agree, Mr Kent? The lecture that you will be taking Miss Fite to won’t contain any topics or references that might have an adverse effect on a young girl’s budding sensitivities?”

Lecture? They were going to a club -- Kon thought the better of that. “Of course . . . not,” he tried. 

Madam King-Smith beamed at him, and held out her hand regally to Kon. “This interview is over. Do come back to visit Miss Fite whenever you wish.”

When he returned to collect Anita that afternoon, he was amused to see that she was studiously dressed in a modest gray frock of calico that didn’t leave a single inch of skin below her neck exposed. “You look every bit the Professor’s daughter,” he commented, lending her his hand as they made their way to the cab. “Looking forward to the lecture?”

“I had to tell her something, mon,” Anita poked him in the ribs with her umbrella. “Besides, an evening with Bartholemew usually is educational.”

Kon’s heart sank -- he’d half been hoping that Anita had given up her plan of going to the club. “Anita, I’m not exactly friends with Mr Allen, so I’m not sure --”

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous. You two will get on fine. Why, he even said the exact same thing!” Anita said, unbuttoning her dress. “Kon, hold my fan a moment?”

Kon blinked. Yes, Anita was not one for inhibitions, but this was forward, even for her. “What are you -- you’re not going to do a spell here in the cab?”

“Kon, dear, you’re being silly.” Anita pulled her dress off with a sigh of relief, revealing a considerably more risque gown, in an eye-catching shade of crimson beneath. “I thought I was going to die in that dress, mon,” she said, retrieving her fan to cool herself. “So hot!” 

This was more the Anita he was used to. Kon watched as she rolled the gray dress up and stowed it in her hand bag. “I didn’t know you could do that.”

“Madam’s daughter helped me let out the body on the dress so that I don’t look like I’ve gained weight when I wear it. She’s a -- what’s the proper British expression? A corker. You’d like her as well, Kon.”

“Does she have supernatural traits? Because I can believe it. Your headmistress is a bit of a tartar isn’t she?”

“Tell me about it,” Anita grumbled, arranging her bosom. “How do I look?”

“More like yourself,” Kon said diplomatically. 

The cab pulled up outside a nondescript building on a street of shops, and Kon helped Anita dismount. 

“It’s this way,” she said, leading him up the stairs, and they were ushered into the club.

Kon had read about the English tradition of Gentleman’s clubs, and the club certainly met his expectations. The reading rooms they passed were refined and comfortable, and he had a glimpse of a tastefully decorated ballroom, and a luxuriously furnished lounge. The decorations however . . . 

“What kind of club is this?”

“Relax, mon. You can be such a puritan at times.”

Kon eyed the paintings on the wall, skeptically as they passed. They seemed to have a common theme. “I hardly think that your headmistress would consider this fit material for a budding female sensitivity.”

“Oh, don’t get me started. She won’t allow us to go to the British Museum unchaperoned for fear we might see one of those naughty nude statues. What does she think, the sight of a marble penis is going to give us a case of the vapours? I can’t stand this place!” 

“Anita!” Kon hissed shocked. “Keep your voice down! People might hear you --”

“Oh, no one in this place cares,” Anita said as they reached the dining room, a collection of booths and tables discreetly situated to screen their occupants. “Mr Allen is at his regular table? Thank you,” she dismissed the waiter and strode toward a corner confidently. “Bartholemew, you don’t care if I use the word penis in conversation do you?”

Bart blinked. He’d stood to greet them, bowing as he took Anita’s hand. “Not unless you’re going to make a habit of it,” he said. 

“Kon was concerned I might cause a scene.”

Bart smiled wanly. “This is hardly a place where you need concern yourself about being noticed,” he said softly. “Hello Mr Kent.”

“Why is that?” Kon said, ignoring Bart’s greeting. 

Bart shrugged, helping Anita seat herself. He was dressed like a gentleman and did a surprisingly good job of pulling it off.   
Not only did he act the part, but the suit he wore suited his slender frame well. “The people who come here are either people who have something to hide,” he explained cautiously. 

“Or those who are attracted to the unnatural,” Anita said, laying her fan down on the table. “This is a place where secrecy is understood -- no, guaranteed.”

“I see,” said Kon, who didn’t.

“The club founders -- people like us -- realised that they would not be able to create a place to meet openly. So they created a club to indulge those with an interest in the supernatural, the uncanny, the perverse and the wonderful -- and here we are.” Anita motioned to the room. “This place gets over run with literary poseurs and oh so tragic and misunderstood artists and musicians -- they’re a laugh and a very good screen.”

“And then there’s the masquerade crowd,” Bart said, the corner of his mouth quirking up. “Talk about bad-taste.”

“Tell me about it! Violetta De Quincy, or whatever she’s calling herself today-- did you see her gown?”

“The one that looked as though she’d stolen the drapery from a funerary parlour? Wait till you see what her cousin is wearing.” Bart leaned in, alight with amusement. “And the old guy is here again, the one with the multiple chins.”

“Not him with the clammy hands -- the one who asked if we were interested in helping observe Bacchic rituals?”

Kon listened to the conversation with a vague sense of horror. He felt keenly out of his depth. 

“The food is a lot better than the majority of the members -- present company excluded of course,” Anita continued, unfolding a menu. “Kon, what will you have?”

“Ah--”

“The beef is very good, but it you want it served anything other than extremely rare you’ll have to mention it to the staff,” Bart said. 

“Don’t you want a menu, Bartholemew?”

“I’ve eaten here every night this week,” Bart shrugged. “I know the menu rather well by now.”

Anita looked at him severely as she signalled the waiter over. “Don’t tell me you’ve gone through your allowance again. You’re lucky dey’ll take you on credit, mon.”

Bart shrugged, turning to the waiter. “My usual, thank you. Nothing to drink.”

Anita ordered, and Kon looked helplessly at the menu. “Do you have any salads? I’m a vegetar--”

Anita’s hand whipped out to cover Kon’s mouth. Bart smiled brightly at the waiter.

“I believe Mr Kent means that he would like the Harvest Roast, only without the pork, thanks ever so.”

The waiter bowed and moved away, and Bart and Anita heaved sighs of relief. 

Kon was not impressed. “Are you going to explain what that was about?”

“You see the woman by da window dere? Da one with da Widow’s veil?”

“Madam Isley is some kind of witch,” Bart said, his voice carefully low. “She has very strong views on the place of plants in the food chain. You don’t want her to take exception to you.”

Kon looked at the woman. She was absolutely swathed in a veil and gloves that covered every inch of her skin.

“Dey say her touch is toxic --”

Kon shivered. 

“I’m going to powder my nose,” Anita announced. “You boys play nice while I’m gone. Keep Kon out of trouble, Bartholemew.”

“I’ll try,” Bart said doubtfully. “And must you keep calling me Bartholemew?”

Anita ruffled his hair as she passed. “I’ve never met a Bartholemew before. I want to savour it.” And then she had taken her leave and Kon found himself alone with Bart. 

Silence. 

“Just because --” Kon started at the same time that Bart began. 

“I can leave --”

Arkward pause.

“When Anita told me that she wanted to bring you here, I tried to make my excuses,” Bart said. “But she was very insistent.”

“I can imagine,” Kon wasn’t too happy at being dragged here either.

“I can make up an excuse, claim urgent business or something,” Bart said. “I really don’t want to intrude.”

“If you leave, you won’t have anything to eat though, will you?” Kon said. “You’re broke.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve gone with out,” Bart said determinedly. “I’ll manage --”

“We can tolerate each other for one evening,” Kon said. “What do you say?”

Bart studied him thoughtfully a long moment, then stuck out his hand. “Bartholemew Allen,” he said. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

Kon frowned at him. He didn’t believe that they could start over so easily, surely? Kon was about to tell him to get out and be d----- and then realised that though Bart was trying to appear calm, his free hand gripped the edge of the table so tightly it was white. 

He could do this. Just for one night.

“Conner Kent. Of Carnegie.”

He felt almost guilty at the relief in Bart’s eyes. “A pleasure.”


	5. In which there is gratuitous discussion of Voduin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And Kon is even more confused.

When Anita returned, Kon was expressing his astonishment at Bart’s choice of meal. “You didn’t eat like that on our travels. Being discreet?”

Bart shook his head. “This is new,” he said. “You remember that last night in Luthor’s castle -- how I restored myself?”

Kon swallowed. The vision of Beth, blood soaked, eyes glazed as she drained a beaker of blood, was not something he wanted to revisit. “I remember.”

“That . . . changed something in me. I think it made parts of me stronger. My appetite’s changing too and I get these weird moments where its like I’m moving but the world around me is standing still. I can’t explain it,” Bart tapped his plate of barely seared steak. “But this seems to help.”

Kon frowned. He didn’t like this news, or Bart’s loss of weight. Beth had possessed cute amounts of puppyfat, but Bart was lean and pale and Kon very much suspected he wasn’t taking care of himself.

He was about to say something, but Anita interrupted as she regained her seat. “You are so stereotypical, you know, Bartholemew. Sitting here in the dark with your raw meat like every other vampyre poseur in da house.”

“If I blend in, all for the better,” Bart shrugged, digging into his steak. “I don’t exactly want to be recognised for what I am. What’s your excuse?”

Anita laughed. “You don’t like da dress, mon?”

“The dress is all right. It’s the lack of it, I don’t so much approve of. What happened to the neck?”

Anita squeezed Kon’s arm. “Isn’t he darling? He’s always telling me dat I’m going to fall out of my dresses if I’m not careful. Quite da expert on woman’s clothing is Bartholemew.”

“A ha ha,” said Kon, avoiding looking at Bart who was very carefully not looking at him.

“Oh, you’re not going to go back to being stupid and ignoring each other, are you? You were getting on so well too.” Anita frowned at them. “If I have to hex you two into behaving sensibly, I will. I need da two of you to get along for da mission.”

“Mission?” Bart said blankly and Kon was glad he wasn’t the only one feeling confused.

“Well, naturally. How else are we going to halt da zhombies?” Anita waved her fork energetically. “Sit around and wait for dem to decompose? No, mon. We’re going after dem and da first thing we need to do is pool our information.”

“I don’t have any information,” Bart said. “Until Mr Kent enlightened me the other night,I didn’t even know what the things I’ve been babysitting all week were.”

“You know London, and you know where da zhombies are,” Anita told him. “And you know a lot of other stuff as well. I bet if I told you I needed a cockerel you can tell me a dozen places to get one --”

“The Butcher’s market by the river’s probably the closet,” Bart said bemused. “But why --”

“Anita’s got some Voduin magic planned,” Kon said, watching her intently. “Isn’t that right?”

She laughed and patted his cheek. “Now, Kon. Dat would be telling.” She smiled at Bart. “Den dere’s da fact dat you have da closest ties to da Foundation of any of us --”

Bart’s expression soured immediately. “I’m not talking to the Foundation at the moment.”

“What in b----- happened between you and Drake anyway?” Kon asked bemused. “You used to be so close and now you’re --”

Anita gaped. “Oh, Bart, you didn’t -- not Drake!”

“You’ve met him?” Bart appeared discomfited.

“When I went to visit Kon yesterday, he was staying at this Drake’s townhouse.”

“Kent is?” Bart did not appear pleased at this information.

Anita was no more impressed. “Stiff and arrogant, just like da rest of dose Foundation suits. I’m sure you can do better dan dat --”

“He has his faults,” Bart said, not meeting anyone’s eyes. “But he has good qualities to make up for them.”

Kon felt for him. “At any rate,” he said, changing the subject. “I’m probably the one of us that knows the most about what the Foundation is up to. The man I spoke to yesterday said they had the threat contained, and when I ran into Drake the night before last he was working at gathering information in a bar by the docks.” He relayed the facts that Drake had related to him.

Anita nodded. “Dat’s pretty much da conclusion I’d come to -- someone’s doing dis deliberately. Since da Foundation has the bar staked out, I suggest we try searching by magical means.”

“I’m with you on that,” Kon said with a shudder. “I have no wish to see Roberta the barmaid again.”

Anita just blinked at him, but Bart made a strangled squeaking sound, and folded over his steak.

“Roberta? He didn’t!”

Kon wasn’t sure what he’d done to merit this reaction. “He did.”

That was it as far as Bart’s self restraint was concerned. Clutching his sides, he dissolved into laughter. Kon stared, and Anita huffed impatiently and fanned herself as this continued.

“Pull yourself together, mon. You’re making a scene.”

“So indencency is au fait, but merriment is not allowed?” Kon raised an eyebrow, although he was a little concerned about Bart. His face had become quite pink.

“Naturally. Dis place does have standards -- have you quite finished? You might want to go and tidy up, mon. You look a sight.”

Bart wiped tears from his eyes as he stood. “I believe you have a point. I shall be back shortly.” He was still chuckling as he disappeared amongst the shadows.

“What was dat about?” Anita demanded immediately.

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” Kon said. “What was that before? The ‘Oh, Bart, you didn’t?’”

Anita leaned in close. “Dis is absolute secret, understand? Don’t let on to Bartholemew you know, he’ll be all mortified -- you know British people. Anyway, first time I ran into him he’d just been hexed by a warlock dat was resisting arrest, and to remove da curse I needed a secret of his.”

Kon nodded, he was familiar with Anita’s brand of magic.

“It only works if it’s a secret dat hasn’t been told before. Anyway, Bartholemew, bless his heart, is in love with someone he shouldn’t be.” Anita beamed at him. “Isn’t dat adorable?”

Kon could only feel vaguely sick. “Are you sure?”

“Spell only works if da secret is true, mon,” Anita said. “I rather suspected it was a male after Miss Kyle’s experimental phase. Every man in da building couldn’t take his eyes off of her, but Bartholemew was more interested in how she got da boots custom made.” She beamed, well pleased. “And I was right! Of course,” she said frowning. “He could do a darn sight better than that b------ Drake. What was he thinking?”

“Anita,” Kon said carefully. “You are aware that Drake and Bart are both, in fact, male.”

“Well, naturally. It wouldn’t be a forbidden love affair otherwise. That was the point of the thing --”

“Both male,” Kon insisted. “So they can’t be in love. It doesn’t work that way.”

Anita sighed. “Kon. I love you dearly, mon, but sometimes you can be so small town --”

“What’s Kent done now?” Bart rejoined them in cheerful spirits.

“Just displaying his ignorance -- I swear I can’t take him anywhere,” Anita said quickly. “But dat’s not important right now. We need a plan for tacking dese zhombies.”

By the time they’d finished hashing out their approach to the zhombie problem it was late enough that Anita reluctantly decided that they would have to call it a night. “Eight o’clock curfew. I ask you mon -- is dat just? Is dat humane?”

While she changed into her grey over-dress in the privacy of the powder room, Bart and Kon waited for her outside the club. Although Bart was happy enough, relating his satisfaction at finally having an explanation for the strange bouts of undead behavior, Kon found that he could not put himself at ease, his mind continually turning to Anita’s words.

“-- told Tim they weren’t vampyres,” Bart finished triumphantly. “He’ll have to eat his words now.” He paused thoughtfully. “At least, he would if we were still talking.” He glanced at Kon. “You’re awfully quiet. Surely you’re not worried about these creatures?”

Kon smiled wanly. “Mr Allen,” he said carefully. “Can I ask you a question of a personal nature?”

Bart eyed him warily but nodded his consent. “I could deny you nothing,” he said. “What is it, Mr Kent?”

Kon swallowed. “Are you and Mr Drake . . . are the two of you actually . . .”

“Lovers?” Bart’s eyes were large and luminous in the light from the streetlights. “We were. We most likely will be again.”

“Ah,” Kon tugged at his collar absently. “Is that why the dress and Beth everything --”

“Mr Kent,” Bart said seriously. “Why are you asking me this? You’ve said again and again you want nothing more to do with me or that . . . episode.”

“I know,” Kon said. “Believe me, my feelings on the matter of that . . . episode have not changed. But as much as I long to forget, to put it behind me . . . I find I can’t.” He gestured helplessly. “There’s so much I don’t understand and much as I turn it over and over in my head, I just can’t see to make sense of it --”

“Conner,” Bart said, reaching in to gently trail his fingers down Kon’s cheek. “You want to . . . understand?”

Kon shivered at the touch. It was wrong, very wrong, but he couldn’t move away. “I just want it to make sense.”

Bart looked at him a long moment, and Kon found himself curiously unable to breathe, to look away from Bart’s gold eyes fixed on him with such intensity Kon could feel it like a blush. “Mr Kent,” he said, at last. “If you want -- and I mean, if you really want to understand . . .” He tucked a card into Kon’s coat pocket. “My card,” he said softly, resting his hands against Kon’s coat. “Look me up sometime. I’ll see if I can’t explain so that you can see it.”

Kon nodded. He couldn’t make himself speak.

“Well I finally got dis nightmare of a dress on and -- where’s Bartholemew?”

Kon blinked. He was rather unsure about that himself. “If I’m not mistaken, he just vanished into the shadows with astonishing rapidity.”

“Showoff,” Anita complained, taking Kon’s arm. “He only did dat because I made fun of his dinner, I’m sure.”

Anita was restored to her finishing school half an hour ahead of curfew to the delight of the Head mistress, who gave permission for Kon to call again. Kon politely escaped all offers of tea, and returned to Drake’s townhouse where it was his fond expectation that he might finally get some peace.

Not so.

Scarcely had Kon set foot inside the house, than Drake was there.

“Exactly how long has Miss Fite been an acquaintance of yours?”

“It must be years now,” Kon said, bewildered. “She was already hanging around the lecture halls and annoying the professors with her questions when I was an undergraduate.”

“Is that so,” Drake considered this information carefully. “Does she intend to stay in London long?”

“I didn’t ask.”

“She seemed very insistent upon tracking you down. Are the two of you close?”

Kon looked dourly at Drake. “I seem to remember being promised privacy while staying here.”

Drake had the grace to look embarrassed. “I do beg your pardon. I forgot myself.” He picked up a stout black medical bag by the door. “I’m off to work now,” he explained. “But I should like to hear all about dinner with the lovely Miss Fite tomorrow.”

I’d bet you would, Kon thought dourly. He sighed, and hung his coat at the door.

Habit made him check his pockets before leaving it and he drew out Bart’s card. He turned over it in his hands carefully. Should he tell Drake? He certainly seemed anxious . . . but Bart was in no hurry to be found. Was it really any of Kon’s business to be involved? Let them sort it out for themselves . . .

As for the not so little matter of Bart’s invitation . . . Kon did not know what to thank.

“Nightcap, love?”

Kon started, hastily tucking the card into his trouser pocket. “Oh, Mrs Mac -- I hope I didn’t disturb you.”

“Not at all. Was just having a sup before I retired. Come into the kitchen and I’ll fix you up. You look like you could do with some warm milk.”

It was the best suggestion Kon had heard all day. Drake, Bart, the zhombies and all the rest of it -- they could wait until the morning. “You don’t happen to have any cookies -- uh, biscuits to go with that milk?”

She laughed, beckoning him into the kitchen. “I can tell we’re going to get on just fine, Mr Kent.”


	6. In which Kon is not impressed.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Foundation continue to be b-------s.

on wasn’t sure what time it was. He opened his eyes a crack and shut them immediately at the dim light. This wasn’t morning. 

The soft but persistant scent of brewing coffee hinted Kon might be mistaken.

Kon resolutely rolled to his other side.

The smell persisted. Warm, rich, beautiful coffee, untarnished by milk or sugar, coffee just waiting for Kon --

“Nngh,” Kon said and pulled on a bedrobe to go in search of the marvellous elixir. 

Halfway through the first cup, Kon became aware that he was not alone in the kitchen. “Gorn,” he said by way of greeting. 

“Ye gods. Isn’t that painful?”

“Our Mr Kent likes his coffee fresh,” Mrs Mac said fondly. “Isn’t that right?” She patted Kon’s head as she passed him, on her way to tend to the eggs merrily cooking in the frying pan. “You dig in and finish your bacon, young Bart.”

Bart here? Kon hastily gulped the rest of the coffee down. Thus invigorated, he was prepared to face the situation with dignity and tact. “What the d---- are you doing here?” he demanded.

Bart swallowed hastily, mouth full as he did his best to comply with Mrs Mac’s admonition. “Mmph--”

“What kind of language is that, Mr Kent? Really. Bartholemew’s come by to visit Tim,” Mrs Mac explained, emptying the contents of her frying pan onto Bart’s plate. “It’s been so long since he’s called, he was quite unaware that Tim’s currently undertaking night research. The poor dear was so disappointed when I told him that Tim would most likely not stir for at least two more hours, so I thought I’d whip up a spot of breakfast for him while he waits.”

But Bart did know about Tim moonlighting as a waitress -- Kon looked at Bart’s plate, heaped with food, Bart’s expression of mild embarrassment as he wolfed another egg, and his skinny arms, and sighed. “That must have been quite a blow for you,” he said, joining Bart at the kitchen table. “I imagine you have to leave fairly soon as well?”

“Business at the Foundation,” Bart said with no trace of shame. He paused thoughtfully on a piece of toast. “You know, Mr Kent, if you wanted to come with me, I could probably get you into the library.”

“You’d do that for me?” Kon looked up to smile thanks as Mrs Mac slid a plate of toast in front of him. 

“Sure,” Bart shrugged. “I mean, there’s no guarantee they’d listen to me. They are the Foundation, you know. But I can try.”

***

“I appreciate this,” Kon said as they climbed the steps to the Foundation building. His previous humiliating treatment there was still fresh in his mind, and he could only imagine how much more difficult it was for Bart. Kon didn’t have the onus of being a living vampyre over his head. 

“It’s the least I can do,” Bart told him. “Really.” 

The man that Kon remembered from his last visit was behind the desk again, looking sharp and dark and sarcastic despite the early hour. “Mr Kent,” he said by way of greeting, raising an eyebrow at his companion. “Well, well. I see you managed to find Bartholemew after all.”

Bart managed a wan smile. “Hello, Mr Grayson.”

“This is an unexpected pleasure,” Grayson said, leaning against the counter. “I can’t remember the last time I’ve seen you here without Drake.”

There was a sharp click as he moved and as Grayson withdrew his hand from the underside of the desk, Kon realised that his heightened hearing had detected the man triggering some kind of device -- an alarm perhaps? He looked anxiously to Bart, but his companion seemed entirely unaware, and Kon could see no way of alerting him to the problem without letting on to Grayson that he knew. 

“Sadly, Tim was not yet at one with the day when we left,” Bart shrugged, and Kon marvelled at his clever use of the truth. “Knowing how anxious Mr Kent is to use the library, I decided not to wait for him.”

“So you came straight here? Bartholemew, you know that only Fellows are allowed to bring guests into the library and you’re only an associate at Drake’s insistence.”

“Mr Kent doesn’t need my invitation. He already has a letter of introduction. I’m here to vouch for his integrity,” Bart said, drawing himself up firmly. “He helped me and Tim with the Cadmus vampyre.”

“Tim and me.”

Bart looked worried. “You were there too?”

“I see the finer points of English grammar have passed you by once again,” Grayson observed dryly. “Mr Kent, I didn’t realise that you were the same Mr Kent that was of such assistance to the Foundation in that matter?”

Kon shrugged in response to the unspoken query -- why did you not mention it if you were? “I didn’t really do that much,” he said. “In fact, I was barely more than a spectator the entire time. Mi -- Mr Allen slew the vampyre, and Drake ended up having to rescue me at one point.”

“This does put matters into a different context,” Grayson admitted, his manner becoming less rigid. “I shall introduce you to our Librarian and see if we cannot find that letter from your Professor.” He led the way down a side corridor. 

Bart squeezed Kon’s arm as they followed him; apparently this was a good sign. Kon glanced at him, but didn’t have the chance to speak, Grayson was asking him a question.

“Curious that Luthor, a man with no prior interest in you, should take such strong measures to secure you,” he remarked.

“That’s a matter of some personal import,” Kon said. “I hope you’ll forgive me if I don’t wish to discuss it.”

“We’re both more concerned about the zhombies anyway,” Bart said. “Have the experiments into the possible contamination effect of cremation been completed?”

“Yes, and most satisfactorily too. In the meantime, we were able to safely contain all the other zhombies thanks in part to Mr Kent’s sage advice,” Grayson said with a nod to Kon as he led them into a room that could easily have been a concert hall, and instead was filled top to bottom with books, bookshelves, desks, the expensive kind of plush leather armchair and more books. 

“Incredible,” said Kon, stunned by the enormity of it all. “And . . . all of these volumes pertain to the preternatural?”

Bart and Grayson smirked at him. 

“The vast majority, yes, although we do have ample resources in the sciences such as botany, alchemy and even the new science of geology. It is amazing how a heretofore unfathomnable mystery will become quite matter of fact with the application of science and a little common sense,” Grayson said, leading Kon towards the central desk. “Two attributes that are sadly lacking amongst most of this century’s citizens, I fear.”

Kon was on the brink of enquiring how closely Grayson and Drake were related, when he noticed that wound around the shelves and tiers of the libary were two metal bands running parallel to each other and resembling nothing so much as minature train tracks. Kon could not discern their function at all. 

Seeing Kon puzzling over them, Grayson remarked, “Our filing system is first class.”

“I do hope you’re not including me in that ‘filing system,’” a femine voice said from behind them, to the accompaniment of a mechanical buzz.

Kon turned to see a smartly, though soberly, dressed woman, red hair cripsly gathered back and wearing a thin pair of spectacles. Her prim and proper image was completed by a high-necked blouse, worn with a cameo broach at the neck, and a full skirt. She looked, in short, every inch the librarian.

More remarkable was the apparatus she appeared in. Similar to the wheeled invalid’s chair Kon had seen used in hospitals, it was set into the mechanical tracks. A control device set into one of the armrests provided direction, while the humming noise came from what appeared to be some kind of generator. A belt that folded crisply across the young lady’s lap was the finishing touch. 

“Are you the librarian?” Kon asked.

Grayson grinned. “Allow me to present our senior librarian, Miss Barbara Gordon. Gordon, this is Mr Kent.”

Miss Gordon held out her hand with a charming smile. “Mr Kent! I’ve been wondering when we might see you. We have some new books, not yet catalogued, that I think would be pertinent to your field of research.”

Kon had not expected such a warm greeting from anyone in the Foundation. “Prof Harper’s letter arrived safely then?” He said with a pointed look at Grayson.

“Oh yes, quite safely. I have it in my office.”

“So you’ll let Mr Kent access the library then?” Bart asked hopefully, edging towards the door.

“Not so fast,” Grayson said crisply, forestalling Bart’s escape. “There is procedure to be followed, of course. Mr Kent has not yet produced a letter of introduction from Professor Harper.”

This beat all. “Hang on,” Kon said indignant. “I already explained that I have the letter. It’s just that it’s in my missing luggage --”

“It’s not Mr Kent’s fault that the Railway’s lost his bags,” Bart agreed. 

“Naturally,” Grayson agreed. “Nonetheless, without the letter . . .” He raised his hands helplessly. “I hate to disturb the Director over a matter so trivial . . .”

Kon saw Bart tense out of the corner of his eye. “Does the Director have to be brought into this?”

“Of course! You know how he is about the collection,” Grayson hinted delicately. 

Kon did not know anything of the Director, but from the way Bart bit his lip, and his hesitant demeanor, Kon gathered that he was a person to be reckoned with. “It’s just a simple request,” he said, rather bewildered at all the fuss his visit had produced. “Isn’t there something you can do?”

Grayson paused. “Well --” he said slowly, with almost drawn out theatricity. “I suppose . . . He is in house today. Unfortunately, with all of the trouble we’ve been dealing with lately, he’s not in the best of moods . . .”

“We won’t bother Him,” Bart said immediately, squeezing Kon’s arm hard. 

Miss Gordon had been watching the conversation. “It seems rather unfair on Mr Kent that he should be summarily turned away,” she said. “I was given to understand that he had done the Foundation quite a service.”

“Precisely!” Bart jumped on the suggestion immediately. “Mr Kent has already proven that he is a man of discretion and of his word -- Tim would agree with me, I’m sure.”

“Tim does.”

Kon started. 

He was the only one that did. It seemed that Grayson had been expecting Drake’s sudden arrival to judge by his sly smirk, and Miss Gordon had the attitude of one who had long since given up on being surprised by these things. Bart simply froze in place. He had the expression of one who has seen too late the trap built up around him, and knows himself to be caught. He didn’t move, even as Drake pulled off a glove with painstaking care and rested his fingers on Bart’s shoulder.

“Bart,” Drake said, not taking his eyes off him for a second. “It’s been a while.”

“It has.” Bart’s voice hitched slightly.

Kon felt awful. Drake had an almost predatory aspect about him, even as he smiled at Bart, and while his words and actions were innocent in appearance, they were loaded with meaning -- Kon was surprised be could carry on so in public without his cheeks burning. As it was, Bart was faintly pink as Drake continued. 

“Grayson, Gordon, Mr Kent -- I beg your leave,” he said, gracing the with the briefest of nods before going back to his intent study of Bart. “Bartholemew and I have much to catch up on.” 

He didn’t wait for a reply, using the hand already on Bart’s shoulder to guide him determinedly towards a side room. 

“Wait.” The word jarred. It was the one off-key note in the entire scene, and it took until Drake paused to look at him that Kon realised that it was he who had spoken. “This isn’t,” he said hastily. “I mean you can’t --”

“It’s fine,” Bart said. The strange spell that Drake’s sudden appearance had them under seemed to be wearing off, and Bart shook himself free of Drake’s hand. “Quite fine,” he said offering Kon a small smile. “Shall we, then?”

Bart’s change in demeanor and the fact that he set off towards the room without another backward glance, gave Drake pause, but only for a second. Nodding thanks to Grayson, he followed, pulling the full double doors closed behind them. 

That nod -- “Ah!” Kon blurted out, pointing at Grayson. “That’s what you did!”

The Englishman looked taken aback. “I beg your pardon?”

“Back at the desk, that click -- you told Drake we were here!”

Grayson smirked. “You are most astute, Mr Kent. Now, since you’ve worked out that much, I assume that my purpose in denying you access to the library is also clear?”

“Delaying us,” Kon realised, not entirely impressed with this development. “To give time for Drake to arrive.”

“I suspected as much,” Miss Gordon said tartly, and a little disapprovingly. “You should apologise to Mr Kent, Grayson.”

“I intend to,” Grayson bowed to Kon. “You have my humblest apologies. Knowing how anxious Drake was to speak with Bartholemew, I could have taken no other action. Please, make full use of the library while you’re here, and if you have any questions, I am at your service.”

Reading was the last thing on Kon’s mind at the moment. “Is it all right to leave them?” he said. “I mean --”

Grayson eyed him sympathetically, and shared a look with Miss Gordon. Patting Kon on the shoulder, he guided Kon into the library. “I hate to be the one to say it, Mr Kent, given that I am a stranger, and one who has taken grevious liberties with your patience at that, but Bartholemew is only reliable for being flighty. Engaging in his way, this is true, but not, one feels, suited for anything of a serious nature. By all means, let him return your attention while you’re here -- I imagine he’d make a charming host -- but don’t forget yourself.”

It took Kon a few minutes to discern his meaning, and when he did, he blushed heartily. “I’m not -- we weren’t -- It wasn’t -- I’m American!”

Grayson paused. “You’re telling me that you and Bartholemew aren’t . . . ? I do beg your pardon.” He frowned. “Well. D---.”

“What do you mean? Just a minute ago you were telling me that I was much better off --”

“Yes, yes, but I was thinking of Tim. Oh, this is a blow.” Grayson ruminated a moment, then his brow cleared. “I suppose the facts in question don’t matter so much as what Tim believes . . .”

Kon could not follow this at all. “Excuse me?”

“Nothing you need concern yourself with, Mr Kent. I simply hope that the impression, no matter how unintentional, of closeness between yourself and Bartholemew might persuade Tim to put an end to a relationship that was poorly mediatated and precipate from the start.”

Kon was hopeful that he’d found an ally of like-mind to stand up against this insanity with. “You do not believe that Mr Drake and Mr Allen’s relationship is a beneficial one?”

“Of course not,” Grayson said. “Bartholemew is entirely the wrong person for Tim.” He bowed crisply to Kon. “Mineralogy as it pertains to super-powered abilities. Enjoy.” And with that, he departed.


	7. In which stuff happens.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim and Bart treat Kon for a night on the town.

His conversation with Grayson had not inclined Kon anymore toward reading. He turned over a few pages of a few volumes, but he couldn’t settle to his task. He was concerned.

Why was he concerned? He cared nothing for Bart or Drake. Both had demonstrated a callous disregard for his feelings, and what was it to Kon if either of them should have theirs hurt? Their lover’s quarrel -- or whatever the h--- it was -- was none of Kon’s business, and thank G-- for that.

All the same . . . it was the theatrical aspect of it that Kon couldn’t quite dismiss, he decided. He’d known the discussion with Grayson had been staged even before he’d worked out why. They’d been manipulated into that scene and the end result, Drake getting Bart alone . . . it would be foolish to think that he hadn’t a plan in mind . . . maybe Kon did have cause to be worried. 

Setting down the book with a sigh, Kon stood. A brisk turn about the library would help clear his head. 

As it happened, he didn’t make it much further than the section on preternatural events as recorded in Ancient Literature. 

“Why, Mr Kent! This is a pleasant surprise!”

“Miss Harm?” Kon had not expected to see Greta, but now that he considered it, it did make sense -- she’d been entrusted to Drake’s care. “It certainly is a pleasure. How are you faring?”

Greta smiled, floating down from the top shelf to speak with him. She’d exchanged her ghostly gown for one of a more modern design, and had tied her hair back in what Kon suspected was an imitation of Miss Gordon. She was not entirely successful, as stray smoky wisps constantly escaped to float off and vanish, but Kon supposed it was the intent that counted. “Oh, I’m having a lovely time at the Foundation! So many books, and there are more people about. I’m only supposed to speak to the Fellows, but even so this is much nicer than my Castle.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Kon said. “I’m in London for research, so you’ll probably see a lot of me in the next few weeks. I’m staying with Drake --”

“You are? What’s that like? Is his house nice? Does he live alone? What’s it like?”

It was never a pleasant sensation to have a ghost suddenly invade one’s personal space, and Kon took a hasty step backwards. “Uh -- one question at a time please?”

“Oh! Sorry,” Greta backed up a bit, embarrassed. “Please, do forgive me. I suppose I’m concerned for him -- he and Bart quarrelled last month -- no one knows over what, except perhaps Grayson, but he isn’t telling -- and Tim’s not been himself since. I mean, he’s trying -- he was very offputting to the new applicants last week and he was positively cutting when a Lord tried to buy his way onto the board -- but you can tell his heart isn’t in it.”

“Oh.” Kon digested this information. Somehow he couldn’t see that Drake was any less sarcastic than usual, but he supposed that Greta had come to know him better in the time she’d been in London. “Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure,” Greta said loftily. “To anyone who knows him, it’s obvious.” She fretted with a ghostly sleeve, thin wisps of smoke forming in her wake. “And you can’t exactly say that his colleagues here have been at all understanding. Grayson, for one, was positively delighted that they fought.” She sighed. “I suppose that’s understandable, considering the Unfortunate Incident . . . but there’s no need to assume that just because Grayson’s friend hurt him -- and the whole sorry incident sounds more like it was an accident than anything else, and I’ve met Harper, and he’s lovely, and I’m sure feels very apologetic about it all --”

“Harper?” said Kon, thinking that surely he was mistaken. 

“He’s an American by the name of Roy. Your area I think,” Greta continued. “He comes by occasionally to use the library. Grayson and he were once bosom friends but I’m told that they’ve never been the same . . .”

“Since the Incident?” Kon was already planning a letter to Prof Harper. This couldn’t be coincidence. 

Greta nodded. “It’s understandable . . . but you can’t assume that just because some of us are irredeemable wretches who delight only in causing suffering and pain, that we all are -- I mean, I would never hurt Tim -- or anyone. I’m dead, Mr Kent, but I’m still human.”

Kon patted her shoulder, ignoring the way his fingertips numbed at the touch. “I suppose Grayson deals more with creatures intent on pain and mischief than people like us,” he said. “But you’re right, it isn’t fair.”

“The Director’s even worse. I -- You wouldn’t think a ghost would have much to be afraid of, Mr Kent, but when he’s here -- I want to sink into the floor.” Greta shuddered. “I’m not entirely sure he’s human -- he’s fearsome, isn’t he, Bart?”

“Terrifying.” Bart agreed. He looked rumpled, but not horribly traumatised. “Mr Kent,” he greeted Kon, far more cheerfully than Kon had expected. “They let you use the library? I’m glad.”

Kon didn’t feel like enlightening him to the Foundation’s deception. He looked Bart over for any signs that he had been taken advantage of inappropriately. “Are you all right? You were gone an awfully long time--”

“We had a lot to catch up on,” Drake said. He looked as inscrutable as ever, but perhaps not as smug. Kon gave him a sharp scrutinising look, but no, not even slightly self-satisfied. What had happened?

Greta greeted Drake cheerfully and they paused a moment to talk of the library’s latest acquisitions. Bart flipped through the pages of a book that Kon had been studying idly, and Kon took the opportunity to talk to him discreetly.

“What happened?”

Bart looked up at him surprised, then smiled, eyes bright. “We talked. Like we haven’t in ages.” He squeezed Kon’s arm. “Thanks to you, Mr Kent.”

“Me? What did I do?”

“When you called out. I’d forgotten -- I always do with Tim.” Bart was looking not at Kon as he continued but at Drake’s back, as he talked with Greta. “Tim could make me do anything if he looked at me the right way,” Bart said with a sincerity that made Kon feel extremely ill at ease. “I wouldn’t have been able to keep my resolve, had it not been for you.”

“You quarrelled?”

“Not exactly. We -- we’ve made friends again, but no more than that.”

Drake joined them with a smile. “Mr Kent. My conversation with Greta touched on the theatre and I am reminded at how lax I have been as a host. What do you say to dinner and a play this evening?”

Kon was so startled to have Drake address a remark to him, particularly an invitation of such nature with Bart present, that he could only repeat “Theatre?”

“Come now, surely even such a country-boy such as yourself has heard of the theatre --”

“Don’t start,” Bart said, giving Tim’s tie a tug as he straightened it. “Mr Kent would be glad to take in a play with you.”

Kon wasn’t sure what surprised him more -- Bart’s gesture, or his casual assumption that he spoke for Kon. He opened his mouth to protest that he was capable of making his own decisions, but Drake had beat him to it.

“Care to join us?”

Bart looked agreeably surprised by the invitation. “That would be nice.”

Kon felt he had to protest. “What about your job?”

“My job?” Tim looked perplexed. “There’s no meeting scheduled until Friday --”

“Your night job,” Kon hinted delicately.

Bart bit back a smile and looked at his feet. 

Drake eyed Kon reprovingly. “I have Tuesdays and Fridays off.” He looked to Bart. “Sheraton at 7?”

“See you then,” Bart clapped Kon on the shoulder by way of farewell. “The Sheraton’s new menu is excellent. You’re in for a treat, Mr Kent.”

Once again, as so often was the case when Bart or Drake were involved, Kon found himself wondering what exactly had just happened. 

\---

Dinner was every bit as good as Bart had promised, and the theatre much less awful than Kon had feared. He was surprised to find that he was enjoying himself -- it was an evening on par with those he had spent with Beth and Drake in Europe. The conversation was on par with the food and entertainment. Drake and Bart were pleasantly abuzz with the thrill of reunion, and Kon found their high spirits infectious. 

He was also surprised to rediscover how neatly the three of them fit together. Drake’s caustic observations were often meant to provoke discussion, while Bart’s good humour acted as a buffer to Drake’s sarcastic remarks. Kon, for his part, could argue with Drake and laugh with Bart -- it was good. 

Drake had a box at the theatre. Not his, he explained, but one open to members of the Foundation. 

“Just one of the many perks,” Bart said in the break between the first and second act, leaning over the balcony in an effort to discover if the violinist he liked was in the orchestra. “Oh, we’re in luck! We’ve got the cellist that makes the funny faces.”

“He’s concentrating, Bart,” Tim said, standing beside the balcony in case Bart leaned too far over. “Music requires not only skill but great self-discipline. Speaking of which . . .”

Kon looked at the programme. It was written entirely in Italian, but Bart had scrawled helpful notes over it for Kon, things such as ‘pretends to have an affair to get back at her husband who is pretending to cheat on her’ and ‘can’t hold a note to save his life.’ “Should I be concerned that I understood none of what has happened so far?”

“Of course not,” Bart assured him. “It’s an Italian comedy. It’s not supposed --” he trailed off.

“Supposed to . . . ?” Kon asked, but Bart’s attention was taken. 

The sole occupant of the box across from theirs was a curiously singular gentleman. He was painstakingly attired in full evening dress, complete with top-hat and monocle, but the quality of his suit only served to highlight his grossly misfigured build and features. His nose protruded beakishly, and as he watched the man chew on his cigar, Kon had the impression of nothing so much as a dark-suited vulture. 

Tim elbowed Bart sharply. “Don’t stare,” he said, bowing in the man’s direction. “Lord Cobblepot is senstive about his appearance, and very strong in expressing displeasure.”

“He’s staring at me,” Bart said, not moving. 

Tim took tight hold of his arm. “Bow to him,” he said, keeping his expression pleasant, but his voice ice. “And then sit down.” He didn’t let go of Bart’s arm until they were both seated and out of Cobblepot’s view. 

“What was that all about?” Kon asked. 

“Yes, Bart. Do enlighten us as to what possessed you to act in such an impolite and reckless manner --”

“You’re really upset,” Bart said with some surprise. “Are you afraid of him?”

“Of course not,” Drake said reprovingly. “I just don’t think its wise to annoy someone of Cobblepot’s influence -- to say nothing of the appalling vulgarity of your conduct. Did you have to stare?”

Bart folded his arms, stubbornly. “He started it.”

“I’ve never heard of the man,” Kon said. “Is he well known?”

“He’s wealthy and rather renowned,” Drake explained. “Had to endure a lot of stigmatism due to his unfortunate physical disformity, before he could claim his inheritance -- his parents refused to have anything to do with him, and he was abandoned and left destitute by them as a child. It’s a tragic story, and as I’m sure you can imagine, one that has given rise in the popular imagination and publications of the baser sort, to speculation and rumours of a most unflattering nature . . .”

“There’s something very wrong with him,” Bart said. 

“You see? That’s the exact sort of thing I mean. You can’t judge a person based on appearance -- after everything you’ve been through, Bart, I’m surprised you can’t find it within you to be more sympathetic --”

“He’s wrong,” Bart inisisted. “All wrong. I would know it even were I blind. I have a feeling --”

“Oh, a feeling. Yes, that makes it all perfectly acceptable.”

Bart glared. “He was turned away from the Foundation, even as an Associate, wasn’t he?”

“I’m not a liberty to discuss that.”

“The Director doesn’t trust him, and is investigating him. You think he’s up to something too.”

“I don’t know how you come up with these ideas --”

“Roy said --”

“Nonetheless, we should not be discussing Foundation business in public,” Drake finished, giving Bart a quelling look.

Bart was not to be quelled. “Mr Kent hardly constitues public,” he protested. “Moreover, I feel that --”

There was a discreet knock at the door of their box, and an usher bowed his way inside with a card. 

“Well,” Tim said, turning it over. “Lord Cobblepot pays us his respects, and offers the compliments of the evening.”

“Would sir like to send a message?”

“No, I’ll pay my respects in person,” Drake said, tucking the card away inside his jacket, with a meaningful look at Bart. “Bart, Mr Kent. Please excuse me.”

The curtains raised for the second act. 

“Poor Tim,” Bart observed, watching the actors. “He’s stuck with Lord Vulture until the next break.”

Kon raised an eyebrow. “You really don’t like him, do you?”

“I can tell when things aren’t right. Like the zhombies,” Bart said seriously. “I don’t know what Cobblepot is, but he’s wrong. Very wrong.”

Kon hesitated. He wasn’t entirely sure he could take Bart’s word for it, but the man did have an unsettling aura . . . He shifted so that he had a clear view of Drake sitting in Cobblepot’s box. “He looks like he’s enjoying himself.”

“Of course he does. The Foundation doesn’t want him to be suspicious, do they? Tim’s --” Bart stopped suddenly. 

“Mr Allen?”

“I -- I have to go. Now.” His colour had quite changed, and Kon was alarmed as Bart rose to his feet.

“Are you all right? Do you require assistance? What has happened?”

“Something’s happened. Something close -- get Tim and come after me,” Bart said. “But I have to go now.”

He was gone before Kon could muster an answer. “At least tell me where --” he started, following Bart into the corridor.

But Bart had already vanished.


	8. In which there is sinister Voduin at hand.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kon and Tim investigate a suspicious warehouse.

Second act stretched on forever. Kon could glimpse Drake in the Cobblepot’s box, but there was no way he could alert him without raising curiousity. As the lead actress warbled on in increasingly shrill bursts of Italian, Kon tried not to think of all of the possible ways Bart could get himself seriously injured in the time the actors took to complete the act. It was all he could do not to yell at them to hurry up. 

“About time,” Kon said, not even bothering to applaud as the curtains went down and he could leave the box. 

Drake met him in the corridor. “Where did Bart go?”

“He said that something very wrong had happened, and that we should follow,” Kon said. “Nothing more than that.”

“Wonderful,” Drake said. He waved aside the ushers at the door and strode out into the street. 

Kon followed him. The road was busy with carriages, and the sidewalk crowded with passerbys. There was no sign of Bart -- or anything out of the ordinary. “Which way do we go?” Kon asked, waving a paper seller away. 

“The problem with Bart,” said Drake, conversationally, leading the way down a side street and out of the way of the crowds. “Is that he’s never been human. He doesn’t have a standard to compare against. So while he can say ‘follow me’ and blithely run off to get himself into the D---- knows what trouble, will it occur to him to leave us a trail?”

Kon’s heart sank. “There’s nothing we can do?”

“Your senses are preternaturally heightened, correct? I hope if we get you away from the crowds you’ll be able to spot the something that Bart sensed --” Drake paused as the relative quiet of the street they were walking down was disturbed by the shrill ring of a telephone. “Or it apears we have another option open in front of us.”

A battered telephone-box stood unattended at the end of the road, the source of the ringing. 

Drake picked up the telephone. “Oracle?”

It couldn’t be for them -- could it? Kon watched in disbelief, trying to discern the voice on the other end of the line. All he could perceive was a sound that sounded like words, but none of the variations in tone or inflection or breathing that made a voice. It sounded manufactured, synthetic -- was it even real?

“He did?” Drake caught Kon’s eye. “That was unusually astute of him. Did he leave an address?”

There was a pause as the message was relayed. 

Tim raised an eyebrow. “Excellent. We’re on our way -- Cobblepot? Yes, he was at the theatre. Yes, the entire second act.” Pause. “I’m very sure.” Another pause. “Robin, out.”

“What was --” Kon started as Drake replaced the telephone.

Drake put up a hand to forestall the question, brushing past Kon as he stepped into the street to hail a passing cab. “Ask me no questions, I’ll tell you no lies.”

Kon could have kicked him. “You know how much that saying makes me want to hurt you?”

“Dear me. You have quite the temper, Mr Kent.”

Kon resolutely folded his arms. “Having to endure you would drive even a priest to violent rage.”

“Was that a compliment? You might want to practice.” Drake abruptly tired of tormenting Kon. “Bart tracked the disturbance to its source. He left an indecipherable message with the Foundation and apparently went to fetch back-up.”

“Back-up?” Kon asked. 

“He didn’t say,” Drake said. “We’re to make a more detailed surveillance of the scene, and assist any civilians present. Our focus is to remain undetected and observe.”

Kon nodded. 

\---

They left the taxi several blocks away, and approached the place that Bart had indicated on foot. The address took them to the docks, more precisely, to a singularly suspicious looking warehouse, from which faint flickers of light indicated both that it was occupied, and that its occupants were trying to be subtle about it. 

“I’ll go in first,” Drake said. “I’ll take the roof and look for a discreet entry. After ten minutes, you take the door and follow.”

Kon looked doubtfully at the door. Thick steel, and barred against intruders, it would take some opening. “Are you sure about this, Drake? I mean, it doesn’t look --”

Kon looked about. He was speaking to shadows. 

“Does no one in London exit normally?” he wondered.

The shadows didn’t reply.

Kon settled down to wait. 

A period of time that he hoped amounted to ten minutes later, Kon carefully levered the door apart. He did it as slowly and carefully as he could, taking pains to enter unobserved. Thus far, he was successful -- he could hear voices raised in some sort of chant further within the warehouse, but there didn’t seem to be anyone in his immediate surroundings. Kon crept behind a row of crates and worked his way closer. 

The first thing that caught his attention was the smell. 

Bad didn’t cover it. Gut wrenchingly rotten came close but even then, it failed to somehow encapsule the full awfullness of this scent. Kon fought back the reflex to gag, and held his nose. What was that?

He peered cautiously over one of the crates, trusting that his enhanced vision would allow him to get a look at what was going on. 

He almost wished his vision wasn’t so good. 

The floor of the warehouse had been cleared to make way for circles to be drawn in chalk and what Kon suspected was dried blood. Candles flickered, and Kon caught enough glimpses of other paraphenalia in the shadows to know that they had just walked in on some heavy duty Voduin. 

In the middle of the circle stood a woman. She was doing the chanting, her voice crisp and steady. Her entire form was heavily swathed in so many layers of black veil that it was only by her voice that Kon could be sure she was a woman at all. Clearly she wished to keep her identity hidden . . . 

Her companion was something else entirely. Constructed along the same lines as a fortress or a castle, the man was big and wide -- it wouldn’t be too far fetched to say giant. A quick glance at his pallid complexion suggested that it was from him that the heinous odour permeated -- a zhombie, and a very powerful one at that. 

It got worse though. A single cockerel scratched the floor of a cage placed on a crate beside the circle, clearly scared. Kon couldn’t blame it -- even if it didn’t know what the usual fate of an animal was in Voduin rituals, the ancient forces being stirred up were enough to distress anyone. Kon could feel the magic like a cold chill down his back. Or maybe that was the fact that if they were planning to sacrifice a bird, there could only be really bad Voduin to come. Kon knew just enough about Voduin ritual to know that nothing spelt forthcoming disaster like a dead bird. 

Anita usually did a really good grilled chicken salad with the remains though.

There was a flash of colour in the far corner and Kon realised with growing horror that there was a girl lying limply in one corner. She was bound to the wall by chains, and Kon couldn’t make much more out but that she was young, with blonde curls that hung loose around her face. There seemed to have been a struggle, as her garments -- undergarments, Kon realised with a fair amount of horror -- were torn and dirtied in patches. 

Kon was by no means an expert in Voduin, but this could not be good. 

First things first -- Drake didn’t want them to be observed, but Kon wasn’t about to let them hurt an innocent girl. There had to be some way for him to get her out of there without being seen -- perhaps if he created a distraction, like, say, disrupting their precious ritual?

The cockerel was very close to Kon. It barely took him a minute to sneak behind the crate behind it and reach for the cage. The bird squawked in protest as it was lifted behind the crate. 

“Ssh,” Kon told it, snapping the door off its cage. “I’m here to help.” The bird wasn’t likely to take quietly to being bundled out the door, so Kon firmly kept his hand around it’s beak as he moved, as quickly as he could to the door he’d entered by. 

“There you go,” he told the bird, shooing it away. “Roam free, little rooster.”

“You’re quite the sentimentalist,” the shadows observed.

Kon, sighed and straightened. “They can’t complete the ceremony without the bird. I thought if they realised it’s gone and went to look for it --”

“I’ve got a better idea,” Drake said. Kon wondered if he were staying out of sight on purpose or just to annoy Kon. “Prepare yourself. In a few minutes, the place is going to fill with smoke --”

“Smoke? Where’s the smoke going to come from?”

“That’s not important. What’s important is that when that happens, Big and Secretive are going to come out and you, Mr Kent, are going to go in.”

Kon nodded. “So how do I know --”

There was a muffled explosion from within the warehouse. 

“That would be my cue then?”

“It would.”

The doors at the other end of the warehouse were thrown open and a cloud of smoke poured out. Kon heard swearing, but he didn’t wait to see if the warehouse’s occupants exited. He hurried inside, intent on reaching the girl before the smoke could do more harm. 

She was disorientated, but stirred weakly as Kon helped her sit. 

“Are you all right, Miss?”

“Surprised me,” she said, leaning on Kon’s arm. She was rather pretty, with long blonde curls and even features, though they were too strong for standard ideals of beauty. The eyes that fixed on Kon were a perfect blue, with slowly increasing awareness. “There was something in her handkerchief, she asked me the way and -- what are you doing?”

“Doing? Getting you free, of course.” Kon patted her shoulder, concentrating on keeping his eyes above her neckline. At least he knew that this one was an authentic damsel in distress. “Don’t worry, Miss. You’ll be safe soon enough.” As she stared at him blankly, Kon smiled reassuringly. “You have my word.”

“What time is it?”

“Time? Oh, don’t worry. We’ll get you home as fast as we can, we’ll explain everything, it’ll all be all right --”

“No, I mean the time -- don’t free me, you idiot!”

Kon blinked as he dropped the broken chains. “Miss, I think you’re a little over wrought. Calm down, I’ve rescued people before --”

“No, you don’t understand! I mustn’t be freed!” The girl held out her hands. “I must insist that you tie me up at once!”

Kon stared. “Um, pardon me, Miss, but we uh, haven’t been introduced for a start and I don’t think --.”

“Mia Dearden, it’s a pleasure. Tie me up.”

“Conner Kent, of Carnegie. Miss Dearden, even if I wanted to tie you up, the current state of the chains renders that somewhat problematic --”

The girl saw what Kon meant immediately. The chains were obviously no longer any use in securing someone. “D---, B---- and C---- it! This is a calamnity!” She said, with most unladylike fervour. “You must secure the doors immediately!”

“Shouldn’t we get you out of here first?”

“Are you quite mad? The very idea is preposturous! Shut the doors!” She folded her arms and glared fiercely at Kon. “Do it.”

Kon was not one to ignore the request of a lady, but this struck him as neither sensible, nor wise considering their situation. “But your assailants will most likely return --” he said, although he was already making his way towards the door. “Surely, you see it would be better for you to be out of harm’s way --”

“Mr Kent, believe me, as daunting as that prospect is, the alternative is worse,” Miss Dearden said, voice and manner determined despite her perilous situation and state of undress. Kon was beginning to wonder if she’d even noticed -- though gentleman that he was, he was loathe to point it out to her. “If I am allowed to roam the streets of London unchecked in my current state --” she shook her head. “Facing my assailants is infinitely preferable. I suppose we should just be thankful that no one has opened a window --”

There was a sharp clatter from the ceiling, and Kon winced in the sudden moonlight. “What the . . . ?”

“What is keeping you two?” Drake demanded, from the skylight. “Get out of here, now!”

“I’d love to,” Kon said. “But Miss Dearden seems to have objections --”

The sound of tearing fabric caught his attention, and he turned quickly. 

Miss Dearden had fallen onto all fours, forced there by the weight of a body her legs could no longer support. Kon exclaimed in horror as her form twisted and contorted, changing right before their eyes. Flesh took on new shape and fur, her features lengthened into a muzzle and great sharp teeth and her pained gasp became a long unearthly howl.

Kon took a step back in horror. “B----- H---. You’re a werewolf.”

Oddly enough, the only thing he could think of was that Prof Harper would be kicking himself that he wasn’t here.


	9. In which Kon furthers his understanding of werewolves.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prof Harper's theories of lycanthropy appear to be proven right.

While it was good to know that Prof Harper’s theories that the existence of lycanthropy was no mere fable, but had a basis in scientific fact, were correct, Kon did wish that he hadn’t also been correct about the great big teeth part. Or so accurate about the were’s wolf form being noticeably bigger than that of a usual animal, and possessing great amounts of strength . . . 

He took another step back as the wolf -- Miss Dearden, he mentally corrected himself -- growled. The sound was low and dangerous, clearly a warning, and Miss Dearden kept her eyes -- still blue which was the strangest thing about this is Kon’s opinion -- fixed on Kon as she circled, wary and alert.

“Mr Kent,” Drake said, carefully, keeping his voice calm in what was probably an attempt to not distress the werewolf further. “Place yourself in front of the door.”

“What?”

“The door, Mr Kent. Surely you can see that allowing a werewolf to roam free in a highly populated area is a bad idea?”

“Got you,” Kon said, maneuvering his way carefully towards the door. 

Miss Dearden did not appear to like this. 

Kon took a few hasty steps backwards. “H--- S---!”

“Stay calm. Look, she’s probably as afraid of you as you are of her.”

“Easy for you to say! You’re not the one trapped in a warehouse with a d----- werewolf --”

“Focus, Mr Kent.” Drake’s voice sounded nearer. Kon resisted the urge to look, watching Miss Dearden for any hint of attack. “I’m right behind you, and besides I’m sure if you’re invulnerable to bullets, a werewolf should only be able to produce minor injuries at most.”

Kon had forgotten about that. He certainly didn’t feel very invulnerable. He took a few more steps towards the door. 

Mis Dearden growled low and tensed. 

“Now!” Drake ordered. 

There was an explosive noise, such as something firing, and the next thing Kon knew, Miss Dearden was tangled in a net of some sort. 

“Secure the door,” Drake ordered, and Kon caught a glimpse of him out of the corner of his eye, aiming some kind of weapon at her. “Now, Mr Kent!”

Kon did not need telling again. 

These main doors, left open at the hurried departure of the warehouse’s occupants, were biggier and heavier than those Kon had opened when he’d snuck in. Pulling them shut was, even with his super strength, almost challenging. Kon had utmost respect for whoever had opened them -- probably Big. He slid the bolt into place with relief. 

“Door’s shut -- Watch out! For heaven’s sake, she nearly got you!”

“Thank you, Mr Kent,” Drake panted, ducking out of Miss Dearden’s way and dodging behind a crate. “I don’t wish to be a bore but --” He leapfrogged over Miss Dearden’s lunging jaws and swung himself up a pile of stacked crates with astonishing acrobatic ease. “Some help would be appreciated.” 

Miss Dearden growled, ramming the precariously balanced crates with her body. 

Kon swallowed as the structure swayed. There was nothing close enough for Drake to leap to -- “Excuse me, Miss? Please don’t rend my acquaintance limb from limb.”

Miss Dearden paused to consider him thoughtfully. Slowly her hackles raised. 

“Not that I would presume to tell you what to do, of course,” Kon said, hastily stepping backwards. “I admit, Drake is rather annoying and manys the time I’ve wanted to tear him to pieces --”

“When we get out of here, we’re going to work on your life-saving techniques, Mr Kent.”

“Should we survive this? I’d be delighted --” Kon only took his eyes off her a second but it was the opening that Miss Dearden was waiting for. 

With a fierce growl, she pounced. 

Kon had just enough time to think ‘H--- S---’ before he was tugged sharply to one side and found himself suddenly halfway across the room. 

“What the -- Bart?”

“Don’t make eye-contact, Mr Kent. She’ll think you’re challenging her,” Bart said. He was still holding tightly to Kon’s arm, having placed himself protectively between Kon and Miss Dearden. “Don’t worry -- I plan to protect you.”

Kon blinked. “You do?”

“Excuse me, Bart? You do realise that you are in fact smaller than Mr Kent and the werewolf in question?” Drake observed from his precarious position. “While I am extremely curious as to how you plan to rescue Mr Kent, I would like to point out that he is as far as we know, invulnerable, while I am not --”

Miss Dearden lowered her ears and snarled. 

“Get ready to move,” Bart warned Kon in a low whisper. “Mia? I know you’re not exactly yourself at the moment and I’m sorry, but if you’re going to hurt my friend I will try to stop you.”

“Bart,” Kon said, stepping back as Miss Dearden approached. “I appreciate the sentiment, but Drake has a point --”

“Thank-you, Kent.”

“And fast though you may be, I really don’t see what you can do about a werewolf --” 

Miss Dearden made another lunge towards them and they were suddenly across the room again. 

“I don’t have to do anything,” Bart explained, guiding Kon towards a sheltering stack of crates. “I just have to keep moving until back-up arrives --”

A shadow fell between them. Kon stared as a gentleman stepped up beside them, perfectly attired in a pin-stripe suit -- and by perfectly attired, Kon really did mean perfectly attired. His suit was neatly pressed, his tie folded neatly, his waistcoat unwrinkled and his shoes so polished that Kon could see his own reflection in them. He topped the ensemble with a beard so carefully manicured that Kon could only wonder at how many barbers the man employed. He squeezed Bart’s shoulder in what was obviously a ‘stand-down’ gesture, as he faced the werewolf. 

“Mia,” he said. “Just what do you think you’re doing?”

Miss Dearden growled and arched her back, snarling nastily. Kon took a step back. 

“I’m not impressed by your attitude, young lady,” the man told her crisply. He slipped out of his suit jacket, handing it to Bart. “I understand you’ve had a trying time but you know I do not tolerate the consumption of civilians -- even ones from the Foundation.”

Drake said nothing from his wobbly post, but he looked grim. 

“I’m putting an end to this nonsense now,” the man continued, stepped towards Miss Dearden and fixing her with an icy stare. 

“Bart,” Kon whispered, moving forward to stand at Bart’s shoulder. “Didn’t you say it was a bad idea to make eyecontact?”

“It’s a bad idea for us to make eye-contact,” Bart said. “Lord Queen is different.” He pulled his eyes away from the scene in front of them to glance at Kon. “You called me Bart.”

Kon hadn’t even realised until now. “I’m sorry, I was startled and in the heat of the moment I forgot. I do apologise --”

“Don’t apologise,” Bart said. “I don’t mind at all.” He chewed his lip. “Do you mind if I call you Conner?”

Kon nodded. Bart had saved his life, or attempted to. “If you wish.”

Bart smiled tentatively at him. “Thank you, Conner.”

“I am touched by your concern for my safety. You haven’t forgotten that I am without any inhuman reflexes over here?”

“It’s all right, Tim,” Bart assured him with perfect confidence. “Don’t make any sudden moves. Lord Queen has everything under control.”

What could one man do against a werewolf? Kon turned his attention back to the scene before them, worried. This Lord Queen fellow wasn’t even armed --

Miss Dearden stayed where she was, ears lowered and her teeth bared. She took a step back -- incredible! She was actually daunted by this highly polished man?

“None of that, Mia.” With speed Kon could hardly credit, Queen’s arm had whipped out and seized the wolf by her throat. He had his eyes locked on hers the entire time, and a battle, not so much of strength, but of will took place. As Kon watched disbelieving, Miss Dearden lowered her eyes, and sank to the floor where she rolled onto her back, showing her throat in what was evidently a gesture of compliance.

“Good girl,” Queen said, stepping back to let her get to her feet. “Let’s get you home, shall we?”

“Um,” Kon said nervously as Miss Dearden pulled herself to her feet, but she didn’t seem agressive. She stood quietly beside Queen as he pulled his suit jacket back on and straightened his tie. 

Queen scratched her ears as he talked to Bart. “You did right to let me know. Prevented from taking her tonic as she was, Mia might have caused quite a bit of damage, though I am quite at a loss to explain how this could have happened. Mia is more than capable of taking care of herself . . . ”

“She did tell me that she was drugged,” Kon said taking a step back as Miss Dearden approached them.

The wolf poked Bart in his stomach with her nose and made a huffy-snorting sound. 

“Uh --”

Queen smiled tightly, amused by the situation. “She’s sorry she threatened your friends and she hopes you’re not mad at her.” 

“Oh. Um, apology accepted?” Bart hesitantly patted Miss Dearden’s head. “You make a very pretty wolf, Mia.”

Miss Dearden’s tail inclined slightly and she huffed curiously in Kon’s direction. 

Kon stayed where he was.

“We’d better get going,” Queen said firmly. “Come on Mia. The night is young, if we hurry we can still get a bit of hunting in.”

“So glad that this hasn’t disrupted your evening plans.”

Miss Dearden raised her hackles and growled at Drake’s shaky tower of crates.

“None of that,” Queen told her sternly. “You don’t want to spoil your appetite, even for a Foundation moron.” He nodded to Bart. “We owe you one. Come by for dinner some time?”

“Thank you, sir --”

Queen reached over to ruffle Bart’s hair. “Forget that ‘sir’ stuff. I’m Ollie to my friends.” He glanced just long enough towards Drake and Kon got a glimpse of a very wolfish smile. “Well, Mia, say goodbye to the bat, and let us be off --”

“Hey!” Bart protested “I’m not a vampyre --”

“I know. Hence ‘bat’.” The protest earned Bart another hair-ruffling. “If you were a bloodsucker, kid, Mia would have had your throat without a second thought.”

“Oh,” said Bart. “I suppose that’s good to know.”

Queen nodded to Kon and with an admonition to Miss Dearden to stay close, strolled out of the warehouse as casually as if he were walking a dog. Miss Dearden, for her part, followed him as sedately as if this was nothing more than an accustomed evening stroll. 

“Is . . . is that wise?” Kon said. “Letting them go? I mean, she’s not even on a leash or anything --”

“It’s perfectly fine,” Bart reassured him. “Lord Queen’s her pack leader. Mia will listen to him.”

“Ahem.”

Bart beamed upwards. “It’s all right, Tim. You can come down now. I’ve taken care of everything.”

“Much as I would love to, Bart, it may have escaped your notice that these crates are highly unstable -- not too mention, just plain high --”

“So you’re stuck?” Kon eyed the pile of crates warily. “We can probably stack enough crates together to reach you,” he stared. “Try and hold still while I use my enhanced strength to -- Bart!”

Bart had eyed the tower of crates thoughtfully, and kicked it. As the crates swayed, then fell, he took a couple of steps backwards, casually avoiding the path of a falling crate to snatch Drake. “Yes, Conner?” he asked, suddenly at Kon’s side, holding a startled Drake in the manner of the character in a romance novel who has just rescued the heroine from the burning house. 

Kon sighed. “Never mind.”

“Was that strictly necessary?” Drake had recovered enough to be annoyed which meant that sarcasm wasn’t far behind.

“I caught you, didn’t I?” Bart frowned. “Foundation alerted, girl saved, evil-doers thwarted -- I think I did quite well.”

“I suppose,” Drake allowed, grudgingly. “For an amateur. But did you have to drag Queen into it? Kent and I could have handled things without him --”

Kon privately disagreed but didn’t think it worth his while to point this out. 

“Mia’s his pack,” Bart argued. “Of course I had to tell him. And anyway, you were chumming it up with Lord Vulture. I didn’t know how long it’d take the two of you to get here, so I couldn’t wait.”

“Queen is a werewolf,” Drake said. “You know perfectly well that disturbing a werewolf during the full moon is not a good idea --”

“He was at his club! And Mia’s a werewolf too, so there,” Bart pouted. “You just don’t like him because the Foundation doesn’t --”

It appeared they could be at this a while. “Question?” said Kon. “Mr Queen is a werewolf -- the leader of a pack of werewolves, yes? Isn’t it the Foundation’s job to stop them?”

“Technically,” Drake started. “However, this particular situation is complicated. You see --”

“They tried and couldn’t,” Bart interrupted.

“That is a gross misrepresentation of the facts,” Drake said quellingly. “And you know it. As it happened, the Foundation realised that the werewolves under Lord Queen’s direction took pains to ensure that they were not a threat to their fellow man, and indeed, were even of use hunting out and destroying some of the low-level subspecies of demons that occasionally plague this city, we decided to give them our assistance in controlling the lycanthrope virus they are subject too --”

“The wolves of course tell it the other way round,” Bart told Kon.

“I’m guessing the Foundation and, uh, Mr Queen’s -- is pack the technical term? Yes? -- pack don’t get along then?”

“We have fundamental philosophic differences,” Drake said stiffly. 

“Queen and the Director,” Bart said. “Queen’s pack leader, and used to getting his way. The Director’s the alpha most alpha male ever. Naturally they don’t get along.”

“Is that so?”

“Bart -- Did you just call the Director an alpha-male?” Drake’s tones were incredulous. 

Bart paused. “Quite possibly . . .” He looked worried. “You’re not going to tell him are you?”

Kon sighed. “Foundation politics aside ... Bart, can you please put Drake down? That’s somewhat disturbing.” 

Bart and Drake considered each other. 

“I am capable of standing,” Drake pointed out. 

Bart put him down. “There,” he said, straightening Drake’s jacket. “Is that better, Conner?” he asked, as Drake returned the favour.

Kon swallowed. He didn’t think that he was ever going to be comfortable with the amount of care they showed for each other. “Could we just go home?”


	10. Blame Tim.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I don't even know what happened here.

Bart’s card had a telephone number but no address. 

Kon turned it over in his hands thoughtfully. 

He . . . really wasn’t sure what he was doing. What to say? He hadn’t forgiven. That would be about as likely as Kon forgetting. But last night’s encounter with the werewolf and Bart’s determined stance to protect Kon had convinced Kon of one thing -- that Bart hadn’t been lying when he’d said that it had never been his intention to hurt Kon. 

Kon sighed, and balanced the headset against his shoulder. It wouldn’t hurt to talk to him surely . . . 

“--llo?” Bart said sleepily, and Kon almost dropped the phone. His voice was soft, sleep fuddled and Kon felt it like a kick to the guts -- Beth’s voice.

“Hello? Excuse me -- who is this?”

“Bart,” Kon said quickly before Bart could replace the phone set. “It’s me. I hope I’m not disturbing you?” 

“Conner,” Bart greeted him happily. “This is an unexpected pleasure.” 

Kon smiled tightly. He couldn’t say the same. “Yesterday,” he said. “I don’t think I thanked you -- for saving my life.” Trying to, at least. It was the thought that counted, wasn’t it? “So I -- I’ve been thinking, and I think I should hear your side of things.”

“Of the werewolves?” Bart asked, confused. “They’re friends --”

Kon pressed onwards. “You said I should call you,” he said clumsily. “If I ever wanted to understand?”

Bart was silent for so long, Kon feared something had happened. “Bart?”

“I -- you surprised me,” he confessed. “I -- Conner, do you have a pen ready? I’ll give you my address.”

Kon dutifully copied down the address and agreed on a time to meet. He replaced the receiver with a sigh -- he still didn’t know what he was getting himself into. “I’d almost prefer werewolves,” he grumbled to himself. 

“A bit early to be making phonecalls, isn’t it?”

Kon blanched. “Do you never use the door like a normal person?”

“In a hallway?” Drake raised an eyebrow at him, and picked up his briefcase. “I’m heading to the Foundation. Would you care for a ride?”

\---

“Anything pertaining to the lycanthrope virus or werewolf politics?” Greta led the way along one of the library’s many bookcases, stopping in front of what was apparently the were-beast section. “Sadly, the most complete resources are in the Foundation case-notes and those aren’t public access.”

“It’s all right,” Kon assured her. “Just a general guide will do.”

“Then you’d probably want to start with Withers, here -- The Were-Wolf; A Conjecture. A little out of date now, and hopelessly unscientific, but the lore is sound. We also have the notes that Ms Isley produced -- she’s the chemist that produced the only known potion capable of controlling the virus’s effects -- but they’re indecipherable and vague. Doctor Cord’s works on the matter is much more legible, here -- will that be enough?”

Kon nodded. “It’s a start at least. I’ll ask if there’s anything else I need help with.”

“Please do,” Greta said, walking with Kon back to the desk he’d staked out as his. “Does this have anything to do with what happened last night and the meeting that Tim’s been in all morning?”

Kon glanced at her. “You know about last night?”

“I know something happened,” Greta said. “Gordon, Greyson and Tim have been in there with the Director for hours. It has to be something important.”

“You’re a ghost,” Kon pointed out. “Can’t you just float in and check?”

“I don’t dare -- not with the Director there!”

“Of course,” Kon said, sitting down at the desk and opening his book. “I forgot.”

He started as a hand slapped his shoulder. “Branching out from your usual reading matter, I see.” Drake said, swinging himself up to sit on Kon’s desk without so much as a ‘by your leave.’ “Ah, doing your research, I see. Good, good.”

“So glad I meet your approval,” Kon said under his breath as Greta happily greeted Tim. He really could not fathom the ghostly girl's affection for him -- Drake was stiff, calculating and about as lovable as a marble statue. True, he was good-looking in a dark, rather superior fashion and his wit was second to none, but he was far too sure of himself. Their adventure the previous night was the first time Kon had ever seen a flaw in that perfectly presented exterior and he wondered . . . but no, Kon reminded himself firmly. He didn’t even like Drake. 

He was rather relieved as Drake deposited a dusty book on Kon’s desk and stood. “Pulled this out of the archives for you,” he explained. “Interplanetary Geology: Theory and Fact. I can’t stay -- have a lunch appointment, but this should, I think, prove useful.”

“Thank you,” Kon said, opening the book. “What’s going to happen regarding last night?”

“What makes you think anything is going to happen?”

Kon shut the book to stare at him. “We saved a werewolf from being used in a Voduin ritual of unknown purpose by a zhombie and a woman more mysterious than the topic of the meeting that you’ve been in since we arrived here this morning -- of course, I think something is going to happen!”

“No, I meant, what makes you think anything is going to happen that involves you?” Drake patted Kon’s shoulder. “Foundation business, old man. You understand.”

Kon looked at Drake’s hand and then at Drake. “And you understand that if you call me ‘old man’ again, I shall break your arm?”

Drake grinned at him. “Whatever gives you joy, old bean. I shall see you at dinner.”

At least he wasn’t around to witness Kon’s moment of hesitation on the doorstep of the address Bart had given him. Kon raised his hand to the bell of the loft apartment, and paused. He was unsure why he was doing this. He’d had time to rethink things that afternoon, and Kon was not entirely convinced he wanted to understand. The concept of dressing as a woman for pleasure made no sense to him, and he still felt the hurt of being so completely deceived. On the other hand, however -- well, one way or another he seemed destined to be spending a lot of time with Bart and Kon supposed he owed it to him to at least hear him out. 

Decision made, he steeled himself and pressed the doorbell.

Only to immediately regret it. 

“Drake? I did not expect to see you here.”

“So I gathered,” Drake waved him inside the apartment. It was furnished comfortably, but not well, indicating that its occupant was of modest means and untidy habits. “Bart was similarly put out by my presence and tried very hard to convince me to depart. Now that you’re here, I think I see why. I imagine I have interrupted a private rendez-vous?” He smirked in a very indecent fashion. 

Kon looked at him severly. “Nothing of the sort. Bart requested my presence that he might explain his actions and through that task, hopefully assuage some of the hurt he gave me by his deception.” A deception Drake was part of. 

Drake did not appear at all disconcerted by his complicity in the affair. “Did he now? Well. That’s braver of him than I expected.”

Drake was at his most knowing and annoying and Kon frowned at him as he hung his jacket and hat by the door. “It would be too much, I suppose, to hope that with your curiousity satisfied, you will now depart?” He noted that the coatstand held, among other things, a dainty parasol, a loaded gun holster and a few cloves of garlic -- definitely Bart’s residence. 

“After an invitation like that? I’d be delighted to stay.” Drake straightened his tie sententiously. “It would give me much peace of mind to know that Bart and you have put that tawdry affair behind you, and I offer my services as a mediator freely. There is no need to thank me.”

“Then I won’t.” Kon suspected Drake of motives that were not charitable in the least. “Where is Bart?” he asked, hoping that between the two of them, they could convince Drake to leave or go elsewhere for privacy. 

“Just through here,” Drake said, leading the way into a bedroom. It was as untidy as the rest of the apartment, but a definite step up in terms of furnishings. The gilt dressing table was littered with trinkets, ribbons, fans and stoles. The half open wardrobe held a select collection of fashionable gowns, along with a few suits, and the bed was outfitted in silk. Although here and there, evidence remained of Bart’s real gender or his hobbies, such as a pair of gentlemen’s boots, tucked next to a pair of dainty dancing shoes in the wardrobe, or a skull of some sort (Kon doubted human, and rather suspected it was no natural species of animal) acted as bookend to a few volumes on Bavarian folklore and tradition, the entire impression was rather like the dressing room of a famous actress, festooned with gifts from admirers. 

Kon gained these impressions during the course of the discussion that followed. When he entered the room, his attention was drawn first and foremost to Bart, wearing a simple shift with his corset and strapped to some kind of restraining device. 

“Hello, Conner.” Bart said softly. 

Kon stared a few seconds then turned on Drake. “You fiend! You’re torturing him!”

“While doubtless many young women would agree with you,” Drake said mildly, raising an eyebrow at Kon. “I doubt the manufacturers of this postural aid would take kindly to that remark.” At Kon’s blank stare, he crossed to the device. “Back board,” he said, demonstrating. “I noticed that Bart has been moping around in a most desultory fashion lately, and thought I should take pains to correct it.”

If anyone was taking pains, it was, by the looks of things, Bart. “Is this true?”

Bart shrugged, or made as near an attempt to do so as he could manage. “I wouldn’t exactly say I was moping but --”

“No, is this device really what Drake says it is?”

“You don’t trust my word? I’m wounded.” 

“It is a legitimate method of posture correction,” Bart replied with a tug at the restraints. “I would like to come down now.”

“I’m sure you would.” Tim placed a finger over Bart’s lips, preventing him from speaking. “He’s something, isn’t he?” He said to Kon, his smile wicked and curved, as his fingers gently feathered through Bart’s hair. “Soft like a girl but stronger -- able to do such things --”

Kon watched the colour rush to Bart’s cheeks and saw red. “Stop it.”

Drake glanced at him. “Have I offended? I only speak what I know,” and Kon was aware that Drake was twisting things, that he had no idea what he was getting himself into and that only made him more angry. 

“Leave this room now,” he said and there was no room for argument about his tone.

Drake raised an eyebrow at him. “So I am interrupting something,” he said. “Very well, I shall wait next door.” He glanced meaningfully at Bart as he left. “Do play nice,” he said, and then he shut the door behind him. 

“Conner,” Bart said immediately. “I didn’t intend --”

But Kon didn’t pause. He took firm hold of the restraints and pulled. 

Leather ripped. 

“Mr Kent! What are you doing --” 

Kon didn’t stop until Bart was free of the postural aid and held firmly against his chest. He knew that Bart was capable of taking care of himself, and that he didn’t need to be protected, but all the same -- there was something about seeing him so vulnerable and defenceless that aroused Kon’s protective urges.

The petticoats didn’t hurt either.

Bart was completely silent, warm against Kon’s chest and Kon stroked his hair, marvelling at how well they fit together. One of Bart’s fists tightened on Kon’s shirt, clutching the fabric, and Kon slid his fingers over Bart’s, pleased at the gesture. Bart was affectionate, still, silent -- 

Silent. 

Bart hadn’t spoken since Kon had broken the back board, and his face was hidden against Kon’s shirt. Embarrassed or . . . frightened?

Kon bit his lip, replaying the scene in his mind. So he’d threatened Drake, not paused to listen to Bart’s protests -- yes, he meant well, but how was his conduct any different from Drake’s? At least Drake had not, to Kon’s knowledge, used physical force on Bart -- he sought to control him with tricks and words. But Kon -- Kon had bullied him --

Kon hastily let go of Bart, taking a step back. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “Didn’t mean --”

Bart stared at him. “Conner,” he said. “What are you doing?”

“I should leave,” Kon said. “I mean, I didn’t even ask or anything . . . I could have hurt you --” That thought hurt, and Kon fumbled towards the door before he could see the look of repulsion he knew would be on Bart’s face.

He was surprised, therefore, to find that his way was barred.

“Conner,” Bart said determinedly, folding his arms over the corset. “You are not going anywhere until we’ve talked.”


	11. In which Kon and Bart talk and Tim and Kon have words.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That's an explanation?

They ended up sitting on Bart’s bed, Kon leaning against the headboard with Bart curled at his side, leaning his head on Kon’s shoulder as he explained. 

“Everyone goes on about springtime in Paris,” Bart said thoughtfully. “But no one ever mentions Autumn in Brighton.”

“Brighton?” said Kon, confused. He raised a hand to return to stroking Bart’s hair, then lowered it. He was forgetting himself again. 

“That’s where it started. Max had left me in England while he took care of business and I was bored. Brighton seemed as good a place as any,” Bart said by way of erudition. “Of course, I didn’t realise how exceptionally dull it would be, so when the deaths started, it was a real relief.” He paused. “You can touch my hair, if you want.”

Kon carefully petted Bart’s head. “Your courtship involved corpses. Why am I not surprised?”

“We didn’t plan it that way. We didn’t plan it at all. As it happens, Tim was there without backup because Grayson had eaten the scallops and so he was really glad that he’d run into me. Once he’d stopped trying to kill me, that was.”

Kon let his fingers smooth down Bart’s hair automatically, as he tried to make sense of this. “What do scallops have to do with this and why was Drake trying to kill you?”

“Half-vampyre,” Bart shrugged carelessly. “He had me confused with the real thing. But you can’t blame him -- I thought he was the one behind it for ages. Always lurking about suspicious near the crime scenes -- and Tim can be quite creepy on occasion.”

“You don’t say,” Kon said. 

Bart shifted slightly to give Kon a private, amused smile. “Also food poisioning,” he added. “Anyway, this particular vampyre went for young couples.”

“I think I see where this is going,” Kon said. “You masqueraded as a couple and decided you liked it?”

“Not at once,” Bart said. “And it wasn’t as easy as that either. Max came back and he -- Looking back now, I don’t think it was the dress he was upset about so much as the Foundation,” he said. “Although he liked Tim -- and the Foundation hated me from the start. But I’d never met anyone I could talk to like I could talk to Tim, and I didn’t care about the rest of it. He didn’t either. The dress kind of . . . helped things. Because Tim’s a professional, and the Foundation members aren’t allowed to have affection for . . . non-humans. And he’d just lost . . . well, a very dear friend and I -- I could die at any time, and when I do those nearest to me will be at the most risk -- any kind of relationship is impossible.”

Kon swallowed. He hadn’t really considered it but neither Drake nor Bart had what might be termed happy pasts -- or even conventional ones. “The dress helped things?”

“Yes,” Bart picked at his skirts. “Because this . . . it’s not really me. Or at least it wasn’t. And Drake wasn’t Tim either -- when we were walking along the pier hand in arm, he relaxed enough that I could see the actual Tim and I could pretend --” Bart paused. “I could give my love to him,” he said slowly. “Because it wasn’t real. I’m not sure how it worked for him, but somewhere along the line . . . it wasn’t pretend any more. And I liked that. I liked it a lot.” He sighed. “Anyway, Max and I had to go back to Europe and I said goodbye to Tim but things had already been started you know? And we ran into each other and it became habit and he promised to kill me . . . and I know he will.” Bart chewed his lip than glanced up at Kon. “I can’t explain it any better than that. Sorry.”

“No need to apologise -- you did well,” Kon said more to reassure Bart than because he understood. “I think I can imagine why you’d do . . . this.” Although it did concern Kon that Drake and Bart needed to pretend to be other people to be comfortable expressing their feelings -- could they do anything in a simple and straightforward manner? He continued to stroke Bart’s hair. “But . . . he shouldn’t be unkind to you, like he is. I -- you shouldn’t stand for it.”

“He’s not like that all the time,” Bart replied softly. “Just . . . well, the Foundation changes things. And so do you.”

“Me?”

“You changed everything,” Bart shifted to put his hand on Kon’s arm and look up at him. “You said -- you said you loved m -- Beth.”

Kon had feared as much. “Bart, that’s -- that’s over. Beth is . . . dead to me.”

“Dead to me too,” Bart said with unexpected fierceness. “I can’t -- I’m not going back to that.”

Kon patted his shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I do like you. But I’m not the sort of person -- my tastes aren’t --”

“Conner,” Bart said firmly. “You liked kissing Beth, didn’t you?”

“Well, yes,” Kon said surprised. “But that was different. I didn’t know --”

Bart shifted so that he was leaning over Kon, and Kon who had a sudden premonition of what he intended still found himself unable to move out of the way. “You know now,” Bart said seriously, stroking Kon’s cheek before bending his mouth to Kon’s.

It was . . . it was warm, enthusiastic if clumsy -- exactly the same. The same on a physical level at least, Kon realised even as he was kissed. The soft glow of pleasure that Kon had felt at the kiss because it was Beth, Beth consenting to be held by him, Beth kissing him with all the fervour and skill she could summon was gone, replaced by the knowledge that this was Bart, that he was being kissed by a man, and not just any man, that it was Bart and he could feel it low and dangerous and somehow fascinating --

Bart broke the kiss and stared rather breathlessly at Kon, their faces still only inches apart. “Do you see now?” he said. “Why . . . all of this?”

Kon swallowed. Things made a frightening amount of sense now, and he knew that he himself would go a long way for a kiss like that . . . 

What he ended up saying, however, was “I think you might have to demonstrate again. For, uh, clarity.”

Bart looked at him. “Clarity?”

“In case I missed anything. The first time.” Kon shrugged. “I’m not much of one for debate,” he explained, letting his hands rest on Bart’s shoulders. “And philosophy makes me want to nap. I much prefer the hands on approach to research.” His stomach was turning somersaults. Was he really flirting with a ma-- Bart?

Bart’s answering grin was pure mischief. “Far be it from me to turn down a friend,” he said, leaning in. 

It was gentler this time, more thoughtful -- exploratory, Kon thought, deciding that he could grow to like kissing Bart. 

“A moment, if I may?”

Drake had the worst timing. Kon jerked backwards hitting his head on the back of the headboard. “Was that entirely necessary?”

“You need to ask?” Bart said, as he climbed off Kon, at the same moment, that Drake replied. 

“Has not our acquaintance with each other taught you anything?”

There was a short embarrassed pause, as Bart and Drake stared at each other, and Kon tried to pretend that he hadn’t just been engaging in licentious behavior with a male. 

“Yes,” said Drake at last. “Well. I did tell Mrs Mac that we would be home for dinner, and it would be unfair to let her hard work go to waste.”

Kon nodded, standing. The interruption wasn’t entirely unwelcome -- he had much to consider. He looked to Bart. “I expect I’ll see you again soon.”

“Most likely,” Bart said straightening his corset, and not quite looking at Drake. “Tim --”

“We mustn’t delay,” Drake said. “Bart.” He bowed stiffly and swept out, Kon following. 

Kon almost had to jog to keep up with him. “Wasn’t that rather harsh?”

“Excuse me?”

“Bart,” Kon said as Drake led the way down the street. “You didn’t even say goodbye to him.”

“You seem to be very concerned on Bartholemew’s behalf.”

“And now you’re using his full name. You are annoyed.”

“That is none of your business, Mr Kent.” 

“I think it is my business,” Kon said, drawing level with Drake. “Not only are the two of you acquaintances of mine, but you are obviously dear to Mr Allen and I think your callous disregard for his feelings --”

“My callous disregard? Ha!”

“I hardly think this is a laughing matter, Mr Drake! Your inexplicably cool manner towards Mr Allen is not only unmannerly in the extreme, but hurtful as well, and if you do not take pains to correct it, I shall be forced to --”

Drake stopped so suddenly that Kon stumbled, turning around to face him. 

“You?” Drake said, his voice as tight as his face, set and pale and angry. “You dare to presume to tell me what to do? You don’t know anythin--”

The telephone was so unexpected that they both started. 

“I didn’t even see that telephone box there,” Kon said, straightening his tie and trying to appear as though he hadn’t been completely surprised. 

Drake ignored him, picking up the telephone. “This had better be good,” he said brusquely. 

Kon did not think that it was possible for his expression to get any grimmer, but he was proved wrong once again. Drake looked positively scary. 

“I’ll be there,” Drake said, replacing the telephone set. “Robin, out.”

“What’s happened?” Kon asked. “Do you need help?”

“Hardly,” Drake said. “And certainly not help from you.” He glared at Kon. “Continue along this street until you reach the florists, then turn left. The second road on the right will take you to my street and you can find your way from there.”

“But where are you going?”

“Give my apologies to Mrs Mac. Tell her Foundation business came up -- most important.”

“Fine,” said Kon. “But don’t think this conversation is finished. When you return we will resume this discussion --”

“If you insist,” Drake said striding into the street to wave down a cab. “I would be most interested in how you justify repaying my hospitality by kissing my lover.”

Kon stared. 

“ I didn’t mean -- Bart -- That was completely different!” He protested as a cab pulled up and Tim swung himself inside smoothly. “That was an explanation!”

Drake eyed him coolly from the coach window. “You consider that merely by way of explanation?” he said with an eyebrow-raise that Kon felt was completely unwarranted. “Perhaps it is you who should be taken to account for callous disregard of Bart’s feelings.” He looked to the driver. “The British Museum, as fast as you can.”

Kon was left in silence as the cab pulled away. That was the worst of Drake; he came at you so quick and cutting and close and there was absolutely nothing one could say to him without coming off as a some manner of halfwit. “That doesn’t make you right!” he yelled as the coach rounded the corner and disappeared. He very much suspected that even if Drake had heard, he wouldn’t have been impressed. 

Kon wasn’t that impressed himself. 

Hapless gravel was kicked across the road as Kon gave vent to his frustration. Some of it bounced off the now empty telephone box, and Kon paused.

He picked up the telephone set cautiously. “Hello?”

“To make a call, please insert a coin into the appropriate slot.”

“Um, excuse me?” Kon said. “I have a question.”

Short, impatient sigh on the other end. “To be put through to Enquiries still requires payment. Any change will be returned to you upon termination of the telephone call --”

“No,” said Kon. “I have a question for you.” He pressed on hastily before the operator could hang up. “Did you call here a minute ago?”

“Are you joking?”

“I saw the phone ring. My friend answered it.”

“Impossible,” the lady said flatly. “We’re switchboard operators. We receive calls, we don’t make them.”

“I know what I saw --”

“You’re drunk, aren’t you? That’s no excuse to be wasting our time. I have a job to do, sir. Good day.” 

Kon replaced the telephone receiver completely at a loss. Unfathomable mystery. That was typically Drake. “I bet he did that on purpose,” Kon muttered to himself, sending more gravel skittering down the path as he resumed the walk back to Drake’s.


	12. Thrill to the amazing appearance of PLOT!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No one calls Kon an apertif.

There were less people in the club during the day, but those that were . . . well, they were an obvious class above the poseurs that hung around at night. Every single curtain in the place was drawn despite it being mid-day, and as he sat down for luncheon with Bart and Anita, Kon was uneasily aware of the numerous shadowy presences also in the club dining room. As the occasional club member passed their table and nodded to them, Kon wasn’t sure if he was reassured or worried by the fact that Bart knew every one of them by name. 

Bart, for his part, was more concerned about Drake. “You haven’t spoken to him at all?”

“He didn’t come back until late last night,” Kon told him. “Only slept a couple of hours and was off to the Foundation before I got up for breakfast.”

Bart bit his lip. “This isn’t good.”

“You’re telling us, mon?” Anita unfolded the newspaper she was holding and read aloud. “Passing over invaluable historic artifacts and da much admired jewellery of da Egyptian Room, da only thing dat da thieves removed was a curiosity from da natural history collection, a lupine skeleton of curious size and unknown origin, catalogued as an example of a prehistoric era wolf.”

“Let me guess,” Kon said. “Not a wolf?”

“It’s one of the things Queen and the Director fought over,” Bart explained. “It’s an actual werewolf skeleton, the remains of a were killed in animal form. Not one of Queen’s pack, but he considered it hugely disrespectful to have the bones catalogued and stored. He wanted them given to him for burial. The Director wanted them for the Foundation. The British Museum was a compromise.”

“And now it’s gone,” Kon whistled. “No wonder Drake’s running around in such a tizzy.”

“Dere’s more to it dan dat, mon,” Anita said, folding the newspaper away. “Tell me again about da ceremony you walked in on?”

Kon described the scene to the best of his ability. “And then there were more squiggly lines in the outer circle as well,” he finished. “Oh, and the rooster except that they didn’t use that.”

“What I don’t understand,” Bart said, playing with the salt shaker on their table. “Is why they needed the rooster, if they had Mia. Surely that’s a little overkill - if you’ll pardon the pun.”

“You presume dey wanted her for sacrifice,” Anita said. “I’m not so sure. Dese days, no one uses human sacrifice where animal will do. It’s just too messy, mon. Missing people reports, families, police - and dese guys obviously don’t want attention.”

“So Miss Dearden wasn’t a sacrifice?” Kon asked.

“She’s a component,” Anita said. “Ingredient, if you will.”

Bart breathed in sharply. “They took the bones! They couldn’t get a real werewolf so they stole the bones -“

“Dey could be any where now. Nothing to stop them performing the ritual - if only I knew dere purpose! First killing people to create zombies, now werewolves . . . what possible purpose could dey have?”

“Tim’s probably figured it out,” Bart said with a vaguely mournful air. “He’s clever like that.”

Kon eyed him. Bart had been somewhat subdued in manner all morning, though he had cheered up enough to give Kon a hopeful smile as he’d entered the club. Clearly, last night’s events were weighing on his mind. “Bart,” Kon started, meaning to get to the bottom of things, but Anita interrupted. 

“Until we work out where dere base of operations is, dere’s not much we can do to stop dem,” she said. “If only we had a clue - da warehouse is staked out, you said?”

“Queen’s left a couple of his people there on watch,” Bart said. “And the Foundation will definitely be keeping an eye on it.”

“Dey’ll probably know better den to go back,” Anita said thoughtfully. “Which leaves us in a bind.”

“Funny,” said Kon. “You wouldn’t think a giant decomposing zombie would be so hard to find. I mean, apart from anything else, that smell --”

Anita and Bart looked at Kon then at each other.

“Frozen,” Anita said. “Dat’s why da water -“

“And the docks! The imported ice - so where do they keep him the rest of the time?”

“Think mon - dere any hospitals around here? Morgues, butcheries - anywhere dey keep things cool-“

“There are hundreds. This is London,” Bart pointed out. 

“We’re going to need to narrow it down more than that,” Kon said. “There has to be something in that warehouse that could give us a clue --”

“I don’t know,” Bart said. “It looked rather ordinary, as far as warehouses go. Although . . . did you notice that the crates didn’t look as though there’d been moved in a while?”

“They were somewhat in need of dusting,” Kon admitted, thinking back. 

”A disused warehouse . . . I suppose dat’s why they chose it,” Anita said. “But Bart, didn’t you say dat was prime dock space? Who’s wealthy enough to have a warehouse dere and leave it unused?”

The sharp sound of a table being pushed back jarred the hushed atmosphere of dining room. Kon looked up to see that the occupants of the room closest to the door had stood hastily, apparently in response to the sudden entrance of a group of three. 

A darkly attractive woman in a scandalously well fitting evening gown -- at this hour of the day? Clearly someone who cared nothing for convention -- smiled as she entered on the arm of a sharply attired man of strong, striking features -- where they weren’t concealed by a mask. It was to him that everyone bowed, and Kon was surprised to see that Bart had stood with the rest of them. 

“Dent’s one of the founders,” Bart said under his breath, not taking his eyes off the group. “Respect is important.”

Kon and Anita looked to each other, then stood. The members of the club, did not, in general, tend to be people Kon wished to insult. 

“That’s Ms Kyle,” Anita whispered as Dent drew out a seat for her. Kon noticed that she smiled thanks but didn’t sit. The third member of the group likewise remained standing beside his chair -- Kon started as he recognised the squat figure and beakish features. He nudged Bart. “Why didn’t you say that Lord Cobblepot was a member here?”

“I didn’t know,” Bart whispered back, lips barely moving.

Dent moved to take his own seat and paused. “Friends,” he said, easily commanding the attention of the entire room. “I hope you will pardon me interrupting your mid-day repast. I have an announcement to make, but I trust that it shall not prove unpalatable to you.” He paused. “No doubt, you’ve already recognised my esteemed companion, Lord Oswald Cobblepot. While many of you are aware of his many charitable and generous acts performed out of a selfless desire to better the less fortunate, none of you are aware of how much this society owes to his benificence. Oswald has long, out of modesty, kept his contributions to this club secret but at last he has consented to have his hard work acknowledged. Ladies, Gentlemen, and all others present, I introduce to you my colleague and co-founder -- Lord Cobblepot.”

Kon joined the applause -- it would have looked odd to have done otherwise. He looked to Bart and Anita to see if either of them felt as uneasy about this as he did, but Bart only looked carefully blank and Anita vaguely repulsed. 

After some jocular prompting from Dent, Cobblepot was persuaded to make a few words. Holding up a hand for silence, he waited until the room was quiet before speaking. “Friends,” he rasped in a voice so low that Kon had trouble deciphering it. “It gives me such joy to be here with you. Too long have my obligations kept me from the company of like-minded people like yourselves -- people set apart from society -- and for what purpose? Why, because we are different! Different! In a society that prides itself on its enlightenment and fellow-feeling! Friends -- where is the justice in that?” 

Kon took advantage of the rapturous applause to lean over to Bart. “What’s he playing at?”

“Shush,” Bart said, eyes fixed intently on Cobblepot. “Don’t let them hear you.”

There was no way that they could have been overheard in excited buzz of conversation and cheers that followed Cobblepot’s address, but Kon didn’t pursue the matter. He felt distinctly like an intruder. Cobblepot knew how to reach his audience. His theme of ostracision and predjudice had hit a chord with everyone present.

Cobblepot paused a moment to dab at his brow with a handkerchief, before waving aside the cries of ‘hear hear!’ to continue his speech. “Too long have we been forced to seek company in shadows, solace in the darkness -- we have sought in vain for a place to call our own. How much longer must we endure this? Friends, I say ‘No longer!’” He had to shout to be heard over the uproar of agreement that met this last remark. “Already in this club we have a refuge -- but even that is not enough. So I throw the doors of my house open to you all! A ball, in a week’s time -- open to all members of this club!” He grinned, displaying fearsome, wolf-like teeth. “Let’s show society that we will consent to be ignored no longer!”

Kon no longer had to worry about being overheard -- it was making himself heard over the crowd’s reaction that was the problem. As Dent and Cobblepot were seated, the rest of the room sat as well, and the usually subdued atmosphere was stirred by many whispered conversations. 

“Well,” he said.

“This is bad,” Bart said. “Very bad.”

“Anita?” Kon asked.

“His deplorable lack of personal cleanliness is equalled only by the unsavouriness of his aura -- I suppose dat’s what you expect from da club’s membership policy.”

“We have to tell Tim,” Bart said insistent and worried. 

“While da thought of seeing Lord Unwashed over there in evening dress disturbs me as much as any, mon, I hardly feel this is worth disturbing your insufferable Drake for.”

“You don’t understand,” Bart insisted. “This is -- an unexpected honour. Mr Dent, you grace us indeed.”

Nice save, Kon thought, joining Anita and Bart in standing hastily. Mr Dent did not seem to have caught the tail of their conversation, holding out his hand affably to Anita. 

“I’ve been wondering who this charming young lady was,” he said. “Ah, I see you’ve brought an apertif.”

“Mr Kent is from Carnegie,” Bart said hastily. “And he is no apertif. Miss Fite’s been staying in London some time now --”

“Miss Fite I know -- I was discussing her application for membership status with the other Founders only recently. I’m sorry, Miss Fite, but we cannot approve your application until the last of our number returns from the Continent -- rules must be obeyed. Until then, you are of course considered an honorary member.” Mr Dent smiled charmingly as he relinquished Anita’s hand. “Mr Kent, welcome. It is not often that we have a visitor from such distant plains. I hope that you are finding London to your liking?”

Conversation continued a few minutes in this polite vein, until Dent indicated with just the right amount of apology in his tone that he had to continue on. “I say, Allen,” he said, squeezing Bart’s shoulder. “You’ll be at Cobblepot’s affair, naturally?”

Bart smiled weakly. “Of course.”

Dent’s hand lingered. “Good show. And you’re right -- much more suited to an after dinner course, I think.” He clapped Bart’s shoulder before stepping away. “Feel free to bring something savoury with you,” he said with a smirk at his own wit and then moved onto another table, before Kon could even protest the slur. 

“What was that about?”

Bart smiled weakly. “Don’t ask.” 

“Weeding out da ‘ins’ from da ‘outs’, Kon.” Anita looked as though she very much wished to question him alone. Joy.

“What about the rest of it? You really going to Cobbleppot’s Ball?”

“After that? I have to go,” Bart did not appear overjoyed at this development. “I am a member.”

Anita leaned over the table to talk to them both quietly. “I think I’m with you on dere being something not right with dis -- Look. Dent’s singling out da real ones.”

“Real ones?” Kon asked. 

“The ones like me,” Bart said quietly. “The ones that aren’t --”

“Oh,” said Kon, really worried now.

Bart drained the glass of wine he had with his meal quickly. “Let’s finish so we can leave,” he said. 

“I’m with you, mon,” Anita said, and Kon nodded, finishing his meal as fast as he could. Dent’s comments rankled though, and Kon could not fully enjoy his savoury grilled aubergine and salad of seasonal vegetables. Apertif? Him?


	13. Tim investigates an alternative career; Bart is not impressed.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim clears a few things up.

Goodbyes were duly made, and the three of them stepped out of the club into the sunshine. After the dimness of the interior, the light was almost overwhelming, and Kon held up a hand to shield his eyes. “Where to now?”

“We need to form a plan of action,” Anita said. “I, for one, plan to visit da museum, see if I can’t pick up any residual readings of da thieves. You boys should look for da zhombie.”

“Easier said than done,” Kon complained. “Like Bart said, there must be hundreds -“

“Oh, for crying out loud!” Bart said and turned to walk back towards the club. 

“Forgotten something?” 

Bart didn’t reply, ducking down the narrow alleyway between the buildings. Anita and Kon exchanged looks and followed. 

The club was situated in a respectable business district, set back off the street a little but closely hemmed in on either side by businesses. The back garden was inaccessible from the front, hence the narrow path between the buildings that Bart had led them down. Or at least, Kon presumed they were heading towards the Club’s back yard. As it happened he was not mistaken.

“Tim,” said Bart as they reached the backdoor. “Really.”

Kon had seen many sides of Drake in their short acquaintance; skeptic, seasoned-vampyre hunter, aggravating twat, smugly superior foundation member - even Kon’s rather unforgettable encounter with Roberta. 

None of this had prepared him for Timothy Drake, burglar.

Drake did not seem at all prepared for them either, judging by his sudden, rather ignominous, descent into the hedge. “Bart! What in h--- do you think you’re doing?”

“I’ll tell you what I’m not doing,” Bart’s voice was tight as he helped Drake out of the hedge and his voice - Kon glanced at him with some surprise. It was rare for Bart to be this angry. “I am not attempting to break into a private establishment during working hours!”

Drake waved away Bart’s helping hands. “I’ve told you time and again not to disturb me when I’m working,” he said, as coolly as he could. Very few people could walk away from a fall like that with dignity intact, but Drake was certainly making a go of it. 

“So you would have preferred I let you meander into an establishment wherein there is at this very moment no less than three witches, a rogue werewolf, a semi-retired ghoul and Madam Isley - none of whom have any reason to welcome intrusions? You’re not even magically shielded!”

Drake blanched slightly. “What manner of establishment is this?” he asked, crooking his head back to take a look at the building.

“Let’s just get you as far away from here as possible,” Bart said taking firm hold of Drake’s arm, and hauling him back down the path. 

Kon and Anita watched this little drama with interest. 

“Much as it gladdens me to see Drake at a loss for once,” Kon confided to Anita as they trailed after Bart and Drake. “Does Bart’s reaction seem a little excessive to you?”

“I wouldn’t want to annoy da regulars,” Anita replied. “Especially not with da Founders present.” She looked sideways at Kon. “So.”

“So?”

“You got something to tell me, mon?”

Kon looked at her, perplexed. “Not off the top of my head, no.”

“Oh? You don’t want to explain why Dent decided dat you and Bart were . . . ?”

Kon’s cheeks flooded with colour. “Quite obviously, he is mistaken,” he said. “Like you suggested, he was just trying to unnerve me.”

“Dat so? A pity. You and Bart would be something --”

“Why, look! Bart and Drake are crossing the road. We’d better hurry so that we are not left behind.”

\---

Bart took them to a nearby park with a bench by side of the small river that ran through it, and they made themselves comfortable, attracting the attention of some rather hopeful ducks. 

“It should be safe to talk here,” Bart said, shooing the ducks away. “We’ve come far enough and I don’t think Tim tripped any of the wards.”

“I should think we’ve come far enough,” Anita complained, rearranging her skirts as she sat. “Do you have any idea how hot it is walking in dese skirts, mon?”

Bart, Kon and Drake looked at each other and said nothing. 

“Two questions,” said Drake. “What is that building and why were the three of you there?”

“It’s my club,” Bart said. “And we were having lunch. That’s not illegal, is it?”

“What kind of a club?”

“You really don’t know?” Kon asked. “Then why were you there?”

“I’m working,” Drake explained, aggrieved. “I was told to shadow Cobblepot and I followed him there. However, the doorman proved quite the obstacle. He wouldn’t let me enter even for a second, nor would he even tell me the name of the establishment.”

“You either know about the Club,” Bart said. “Or you don’t. It’s like that.” And apparently feeling that he’d made sufficient sense, he changed the conversation. “Did anyone see you trying to enter? Just the doorman?”

“You’re awfully worried, Bart,” Kon observed. “Would you stop carrying on like someone’s going to die and tell us what’s got you so riled?”

Bart bit his lip. “A while ago, when Ms Kyle was accused of robbery -- you remember the headlines, Tim? All that fuss with the banker and his wife filing for divorce? Well, a reporter gained access to the club under false pretences and . . . I’m not sure what happened exactly. He was found three days later wandering around Brighton in his undergarments, singing songs about pixies.”

“What?” said Kon. “You’re saying they drove him mad?”

“There was no proof,” Bart said. “No marks on him, no sign of torture or . . . or anything, actually. No chemicals, nothing. His mind just went, according to the doctors and he’s in a home now, I think. Nothing to connect him to the club but the visit and . . . Tim, you mustn’t go back there. No one there has reason to like the Foundation as is but if they catch you now --” He held tightly to Drake’s arm as if he thought that Drake intended to march back there at once. “Promise me you won’t go back there.”

“I do have a job to do,” Drake said with slightly less severity than usual. “Until I know what Cobblepot is up to --”

“We could tell you that,” Kon said. “After all, we were there.”

There was a pause as the three of them considered the implications of this. 

“We could share our information for yours,” Bart said. “Work together on this.”

“Absolutely not!” said Anita. “I refuse to work with anyone affiliated with dat -- dat elitist group of self-satisfied and smarmy insufferable know-it-alls --”

“All right then,” Drake said. “But only because you asked so nicely.”

Kon had the feeling that this might be difficult. 

\---

As it happened, even Anita had to admit that Drake’s help was worth having. “I take it then that none of you noticed the Warehouse name?”

Kon, Bart and Anita looked at each other and shrugged. 

“Walterson’s Mixed Commodities?” 

“Very good, Bart. As it happens, Walterson sold out some time ago to a friend of yours who made a fortune from shipping ice and other frozen goods--”

“Oh,” said Bart. “Oh.”

“Exactly,” Tim smiled at him, thin and pointed and pleased.

“So our zhombie will most likely be down at the docks somewhere --”

“It would be likely, yes.”

“Would you two like to stop playing at being enigmatic a moment and tell us what in blazes you’re going on about?” Kon thought he could be forgiven for being somewhat testy. Bart and Drake had given no indication that they were aware there were other people in this conversation at all. 

Anita raised an eyebrow at him but made no comment. “Dis friend in charge of shipping ice -- how das dat work?”

“They bring in the ice from locations such as Norway,” Drake explained. “It’s marketed as purer and fresher than ice found here, and it is carved up and sold to households and businesses to be used in coolers.”

“We do have ice in America, Drake,” Kon pointed out before Anita could hit Drake. “How does one make a fortune from it?”

“Mostly through your competitors having a run of bad luck,” Drake said. “Involving fatalities, bankruptcy and sabotage, which eventually leaves you with a monopoly on the market. Oh, and diversifying of course.”

“So who --” Kon paused. “Don’t tell me. Not Cobblepot?”

“The same.”

“But didn’t you say he was a Lord? Why would a Lord have to stoop to industrial sabotage?”

“He had to afford the lawyers to contest his parents' will somehow, of course,” Drake said. He was enjoying being right, d--- him. “Now he has title, wealth -- what more does he need?”

“Power?” Kon said. “From what we heard this afternoon, it almost sounded as though he were inciting a revolution.”

“And he intends to use the zhombies as some kind of undead cannon fodder?” Drake considered this. “Could be.”

“Finding out why he’d doing dis isn’t as important as stopping him,” Anita said. “Voduin’s not for the like’s of him to mess around with.”

“I admire your professional interest,” Drake said. “Your suggestion of investigating the museum scene is a most welcome one. I’ll make a few calls, see if I can’t get you in.”

“You can do dat?” Anita sounded grudgingly impressed. 

Drake nodded. “Bart, Mr Kent -- do you fancy zhombie hunting with me this evening?”

“You have to ask?” Bart said happily and Kon gave him a wary look. 

“I don’t have any other plans,” he said. “But --”

“Excellent,” Drake said. “In that case, I suggest we adjourn to a telephone box so that I can make arrangements on behalf of Miss Fite, and let Mrs Mac know to expect the three of us for dinner.”

As Drake made the calls, Kon drew Bart to one side. “Is this all right? Wasn’t Drake really angry at us just last night?”

“Tim always puts work first,” Bart assured him. “He’s a professional. Besides, if he were really angry, he wouldn’t be letting us fight zhombies at all.”

Personally, Kon was more likely to wish zhombies upon an enemy than a friend, but his not to reason why. “All the same --”

“What luck -- I was just about to hail a cab. We can share it as far as the Museum,” Drake helped Anita then Bart into the carriage. “Mr Kent, what are you dallying over there for?”

Kon tried to ignore the feeling of impending doom and climbed into the carriage next to Anita. “Do you have any visions of fast encroaching calamity?”

“Only if you don’t stop sitting on my fan, mon.”

The ride to the museum passed amiably enough, with Drake and Anita discussing popular misconceptions of Voduin and Bart occupying himself by removing the last traces of hedge from Drake’s jacket. Kon tried not to make eye contact, and stared glumly out the window. 

He helped Anita out of the carriage hopefully. “I imagine you’ll need a companion to accompany you since your Head Mistress isn’t big on her students going about on their own?”

“Kon, you sweetheart. I’ll be fine. Cast a spell on her before I left dis morning. She won’t notice I’m gone.”

“Are you sure you don’t need someone to help you cast Voduin spells or something?”

“You know magic gives you allergies. You have fun searching for zhombies, mon, I’ll get in touch with you tomorrow.” Anita squeezed his arm and left him. 

“Don’t just stand there, Kent. The cabbies charge by the minute you know.”

Kon thought that he should be growing used to being doomed. It seemed to happen an awful lot. 

\---

The rest of the cab ride was uneventful, only because no one spoke. Arriving back at Drake’s residence did not improve matters any. Kon waited for the dinner bell in Drake’s library, watching Drake shuffle the pages of the Times calmly, and wondered how he could be so callous. 

“How long exactly do you plan on ignoring us for?” he demanded at last, the pressure finally becoming too much to bear. 

Drake paused in his contemplation of the newspaper, Bart looked shocked. 

“Conner! You shouldn’t --”

“It’s all right, Bart,” Drake said folding the paper away. “I believe Mr Kent raises a valid point. Since we are going to be cooperating on an endeavour tonight that verges on the perilous, it is just as well that we take this opportunity to clear the air of any misunderstandings and grievances that may yet linger.”

May yet linger? Kon didn’t know who Drake was trying to fool. He watched apprehensively as Drake beckoned Bart to his side. 

“I’ve been reconsidering my actions last night,” Drake continued smoothly. “Perhaps I did react too hastily. However, the motivations behind my actions have not changed, and I want to make my position on the matter perfectly clear.” He looked pointedly at Kon, then at Bart. 

Kon saw him move before Bart did and opened his mouth to warn Bart but he was too slow. Instead, Kon ended up simply staring in mute astonishment as Drake grabbed Bart close and bent him back in what was apparently a very involved kiss. 

After a couple of seconds of this, Kon recollected himself to cough. “You might want to warn people before you do that,” he said, pointedly not looking at them, and straightening his jacket. “Or even better, keep it to yourselves.”

Bart and Drake evidently cared nothing for this sentiment -- if they even heard it at all. 

It was some time later before Kon heard Drake speak and felt encouraged to chance turning around once more. 

“There,” Drake said, looking fixedly at Bart. “I trust we understand each other?” He touched Bart’s cheek just lightly, once, before pulling his hand back. 

Bart slid his hands around Drake’s shoulders, inclining him towards him. “I believe there’s something you forgot,” he said, and --

Kon turned around hastily. “I’ll be in my room,” he said, making for the door.


	14. Zhombie Hunting: An agreeable past time for the entire family.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I don't think much of Tim's plan.

Dinner was an ordeal. Kon made polite conversation with Mrs Mac, and tried not to think about what was keeping Drake and Bart. He was very relieved when they did come down, at least until he realised that Drake now considered he had free reign to be as smug as he wished. 

Bart was cheerful, and made good work of the meal put in front of him with no signs of distress of discomposure and for some reason that was even more aggravating. After a few minutes of this, Kon folded his napkin and excused himself from the dinner table.

Bart came and found him. 

“Tim wants you to come back,” he said, leaning in the doorway to the study that now acted as Kon’s bedroom. “Ms Mac made dessert specially for you. If you don’t have any, she’ll be awfully put out.”

“I’m really not hungry, Bart,” Kon said, scribbling determinedly away at the letter he was writing Professor Harper. 

“That’s a shame. She’s really good at pudding.”

Bart’s hand settled on the back of Kon’s neck and he looked up in surprise at the touch. “What -- mmph!” Bart had taken advantage of Kon’s reaction to steal in for a kiss. It didn’t occur to Kon to move out of the way until Bart had finished and was beaming at him with a rather self satisfied air. 

“Did Tim tell you to do that too?” he asked.

Bart was cheerfully oblivious to Kon’s bitterness. “That was all my idea,” he said cheerily, ruffling Kon’s hair before Kon could duck away. “I thought that since Tim and I made up you might be feeling lonely.”

“Far from it,” Kon said, trying to smooth his hair back down again. “Believe you me, I am nothing but relieved that the two of you have made up. If your attention is on each other it means there is less of it on me, a situation which I believe is well to the advantage of all concerned.”

“Conner,” said Bart happily. “You are a good sport.” He untidied Kon’s hair one last time before heading for the door. “You really should join us. It’s apple pie.”

Gluttony warred with common-sense, self-preservation and dignity. “Apple pie?”

Bart nodded. “With cream.”

Common-sense, self-preservation and dignity be d-----. 

\---

Shortly after the apple pie, which was every bit as good as Ma Kent’s and that Kon had no less than 5 helpings of, a delivery arrived for Tim from the Foundation. He supervised the unloading of the three crates into the basement, and then Kon and Bart stood around curiously as he unlocked them. 

“The Director’s been working on a new weapon,” Drake explained. “I’m anxious to see how it fares against zhombies.” He removed the thing from the box. “He calls it a Flame-Thrower.”

It was an ungainly thing with a back unit to which was attached a long, nozzle like thing that ended in a finely tapered top. 

“What does it do?” Bart asked.

“It’s called a Flame-Thrower,” Tim said. “What do you think it does? Now, I’ll take the Flame-Thrower, but I thought that a rifle for you with some incendiary bullets would do the trick. Do you shoot, Kent?”

Kon looked away from the Flame-Thrower controls. “When I have to.”

“You’ve got a choice between crossbow, good old fashioned pistol or a new gun we’ve been working on that’s strong enough to punch through metal. It’s rather bulky but that shouldn’t present any problem for -- Bart, I don’t think you should play with that --”

A few seconds of intense heat followed by panicked activity followed this statement. 

\---

Drake was still sulking as they arrived at the docks. “That was a prototype!”

“I said sorry,” Bart pointed out. “You didn’t have to take the incendiary bullets away from me.”

Kon patted his shoulder. “I think its safer for all concerned if Drake keeps hold of anything flammable from now on.”

“Thank you, Kent. Proceed quietly -- There will be guards stationed around these warehouses.”

With Drake leading, they hugged the shadows, weaving their way through the warehouses and wharves. At first they had to stop often to dodge guard patrols, but as they neared the warehouses that Drake believed most likely to contain the zhombie, they saw less and less signs of guards.

“A good sign, I think,” Drake said. “After all, Mr Ugly’s a guard force in himself.”

Kon had imagined that his journey to Europe would be educational, but he’d never believed he would be learning how to break into a deserted warehouse. “Remind me again why it has to be me who forces the door?”

“You’re American,” Drake pointed out. “If we get caught, and they take your name, it won’t matter because you’ll be returning to the States eventually.”

“That’s really reassuring,” Kon muttered, snapping the lock on the doors and pushing them open as stealthily as he could. 

“Wow,” said Bart. “Cold.”

His breath frosted on the air around them. 

“Do you see anything?” Drake asked as Bart made his way into the warehouse. 

“It’s like full of ice -- woah!”

“The floor’s slippery,” Drake remarked to Kon.

“So I see.” 

Drake smiled at Kon before going to retrieve Bart, a quick, amused smile without anything sarcastic or sinister about it. Thoroughly disconcerted, it was a moment before Kon regained presence of mind enough to pull the warehouse door closed behind them and join his companions. 

The floor was very slippery indeed. Kon balanced carefully, joining Drake and Bart in staring at a rather huge metal safe, the kind commonly used for storing meat, in the centre of the room. “Well.”

“Indeed,” Drake said. “Far be it from me to boast but --”

“You were right, we know.” Bart gave Drake a cheerful back pat that almost resulted in Bart losing his balance. He steadied himself and slid over to the giant safe. “How do you think we get this thing open -- oops!”

“I don’t know,” Drake said. “Perhaps you could fall on it?” He gave Kon another amused smile and turned to the bag carrying their zhombie hunting equipment. “Would you care to test the new gun, Mr Kent? Something that can punch through metal would be of use right now.”

“I’m not sure what a gun will do that I can’t,” Kon said, hefting the weapon experimentally.

“True,” Drake said. “But it would be as well to give it a try. This --”

“Tim?”

“-- is another of the Foundation’s prototypes. I’d be interested particularly in how you find the recoil --”

“Tim!” 

“We’ll be with you in a minute, Bart,” Drake told him, loading his own weapon quickly. “Once we’ve got the safe open.”

“That’s not going to be necessary. He’s, um, opened it by himself,” Bart said sounding vaguely apologetic. 

Kon and Drake spun around. 

The zhombie loomed in the doorway. He seemed to have gotten bigger, if that was even possible. 

“The freezing process is really effective,” Kon said. “I hardly smelt him at all.”

“I think,” Drake said carefully, as the zhombie lumbered towards them. “That we should go to plan B.”

“Plan B?”

“Scatter.”

Plan B left something to be desired, Kon felt. Ice was not his first choice of material to scatter over, and as he slipped and slithered his way to a safer vantage point, he couldn’t help but notice that the zhombie had no such difficulty. For a start, the zhombie was barefoot, and seemingly au fait with this, his feet giving him better grip on the ice. Secondly, the cold did not seem to concern him at all. 

“Little people want to play with Grundy? Grundy like play. Grundy play catch!”

Kon barely managed to catch the block of ice that the zhombie lugged at Drake before it flattened him. “Did you know zhombies could talk?” he grunted, shifting his weight and lugging the block of ice back. 

“You’re the expert here, Mr Kent,” Drake reminded him crisply, loading the big gun for Kon. “I take it that this is an unusual zhombie then?”

“Grundy play catch! Grundy like to play!”

“Bart, look out --” 

Bart just managed to dodge the flying ice, but in the process lost his balance completely, colliding unfortunately and painfully with the floor. 

Drake and Kon watched this ignominous occurrence. 

“One man down,” Kon remarked.

“Now I remember that there was a reason the Director forbade me from taking Bart with me on Winter patrols.” Drake handed the blaster-gun to Kon and drew the pistol with the incendiary bullets from his coat. “After you?”

“Ha ha! Little person fall down!”

“It’s not exactly quick on the uptake, is it?” Kon said. “Hey, Mr Ugly!” 

“Most zhombies are?”

Kon ignored Drake as the zhombie turned its lumbering attention on him. “So, let’s see how well this gun of yours works.”

“Name is Solomon Grundy, not Ugly. Grundy think little people ugly. Grundy fix little people good --”

“Fix this,” Kon said, aiming the blaster gun dead at the centre of Grundy’s chest and firing. 

The effect was somewhat disappointing. 

“The recoil tickled,” Kon reported, swinging the gun off his shoulder. “Apart from that, no problems. You can chalk this one up as a success --”

“Ah, Mr Kent? I don’t believe it would be wise to put the gun away just yet.” 

Kon looked up to see Drake carefully backing away. “What do you mean? You saw it take a huge chunk out of Grundy’s chest. There’s no way he can --”

“Now Grundy mad!”

“Oh.” This could be problematic. 

Drake’s incendiary bullets were a bit more effective, but their effect was curtailed by the fact that Grundy was not only less flammable than most zhombies due to his partially frozen state, but also self-aware enough to stomp out the flames.

“Grundy not want to be mad, but little people push it! Grundy not a nice person when Grundy mad!”

“Believe me, I think we’d gathered that.” Bart sounded groggy as he pulled himself to his feet again. 

“Bart! Get out of there!” Drake yelled, but it was too late. 

Grundy grabbed for Bart and not even Bart’s clever attempt to dodge by falling out of his way prevented him from seizing his target. “Little person not funny! Grundy show little person who boss!”

“Tim!”

Drake knocked the blaster gun away from Kon. “Don’t fire -- you might hit Bart.” Skating nearer to Grundy, Drake fired at his shoulder.

The incendiary bullet tore a chunk out of Grundy’s arm and the zhombie howled in rage, loosening his grip on Bart as he tried to pat out the flames with his other hand. 

Bart coughed as some of the smoke drifted his way. “Burnt stinky zhombie. Thanks, Tim.” He’d managed to work the arm holding his own gun free and he now fired at Grundy. 

“Aim for the nerve endings, base of the skull,” Tim shouted, taking advantage of Grundy’s distraction to shoot him a few more times in places where he was mostly defrosted. 

“I’m trying!” Bart yelled back. “Doesn’t seem to be making any difference to him -- Ah!”

“Grundy’s eye! Grundy kill little person for this!” The zhombie reached for Bart with his big hulking hand, almost five times the size of Bart’s. Kon winced as the zhombie closed his hand around Bart’s arm and pushed. The cracking sound almost made him feel sick and Bart cried out in pain --

“Put him down or I shoot out your other eye,” Drake said and Kon could only wonder at his courage. He was standing right in front of Grundy, his gun aimed squarely at the zhombie’s face and threatening him with the sort of cool certainty that comes from someone with a plan. As Grundy sized him up, and decided to oblige, tossing Bart to one side as carelessly as if Bart were nothing more than week-old garbage, Kon slid accross the floor to cover Drake’s back. 

“What’s the plan?” he whispered, keeping a wary eye on Grundy. 

Drake paused. “Plan?”


	15. Doom? Check.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When sentient zhombies are the least of your problems...

Drake was nothing if not thorough. Not content with exploding the giant smouldering zhombie with the remains of the Flame-Thrower, he buried the zhombie’s smouldering corpse under a mountain of ice, and then had Kon scatter salt all around it. 

“Not that I mean to criticise,” Kon said, climbing carefully over the icy perimeter. “That was some of the best impromptu monster-slaying I’ve ever seen. But this . . . seems a little unnecessary.”

“We’re taking no chances with this one,” Drake said in a tone that would brook no disagreement. 

“I appreciate that. A zhombie that you destroy today is one less to annoy you tomorrow. All the same, this seems a little excessive --”

“He hurt Bart. That I will not tolerate.”

Kon paused. “You feel that strongly . . . ?” He made a mental note to have a word with Bart later. There was to be no more kissing anywhere that Drake could be expected to find them -- and even in places where Drake was completely unexpected. 

As it happened, that wasn’t a problem. 

Bart was sprawled where Grundy had tossed him, still and looking like nothing so much as a broken doll. His body was entirely limp, arms and legs at odd angles, and so pale -- 

Kon couldn’t help an exclamation of alarm and stepped quickly toward him. “Good G--, is he --?”

Drake’s arm whipped out sharply to stop him, gripping Kon’s arm painfully tight. “Don’t approach him,” he ordered. “Stay where you are and cover me.”

“Bart’s hurt,” Kon argued. “Of all the times for you to get territorial, now is not --”

“Cover me, Kent.” The sheer amount of strain in Drake’s voice was enough to startle Kon into momentary silence. Drake was white, it seemed that his considerable self-control was the only thing holding some great emotion at bay. “If I fail, you’ll have to finish this.” Drake fixed Kon with a sharp look that beseeched even as it demanded, then turned all his attention to Bart’s still form.

Fail? Kon shivered, but the chill he felt had nothing to do with the temperature of the warehouse. What did Drake mean by ‘cover him’? Kon glanced around the warehouse but it was deserted besides the three of them. He took a few cautious steps after Drake. 

Drake knelt by Bart’s side, quickly sizing up his condition. He pulled back his jacket, and Kon’s breath caught as he saw him draw a sharpened stake from an inner pocket. By all that was holy, no --

Drake ran a hand down Bart’s neck, the stake poised ready. He looked over Bart’s body, searching for something -- and suddenly froze. 

Kon was too scared to ask, or even move. He heard it a second later, the weak cough as Bart stirred . . . 

“Don’t move.” Drake had one hand on Bart’s neck, the other pressing the wooden stake against Bart’s chest. “I mean it. One movement and this goes through your heart.” 

Another heart rendingly long moment passed, and then Bart took a long shuddering breath and seemed to give, going limp against the floor. 

Drake removed the hand at Bart’s neck to feel the wrist of Bart’s unbroken arm. Kon’s gut was so heavy it was painful, the fear weighing on him till he was almost unable to breathe. So loud was his heart that he almost missed Drake’s words.

“You can approach, Kon. He lives still.”

Kon was only too glad to kneel beside Bart. His legs felt somewhat shaky. “Thank G--.”

“Don't relax too soon. He’s in a serious way, we may yet lose him.” Kon had called Drake emotionless, now he was grateful for the control that kept him together, taking charge of the situation. “This arm is definitely broken and I’m concerned that he may have suffered an internal rupture of some sort, not to mention this head wound here -- Mr Kent, I’m going to need your help shifting him. As slowly and as carefully as we can --”

Bart opened his eyes as they propped him up against a nearby block of ice. 

“That better?” Tim asked with solicitous care. 

“--urts,” Bart slurred. 

“Can you breathe?”

Bart took a deep rattling breath, and nodded. 

“Good. Don’t move. Kon and I are seeing to you.” Drake tugged Kon’s sleeve, pulling him close enough to whisper without Bart hearing. “We’ll have to bind his arm before moving him. See if you can find a long piece of wood, fairly straight. Break something if you have to.”

Kon nodded, looking at Bart worriedly. The broken arm seemed the least of his injuries. “Is there anything we can do for the rest of it?”

“I’ll handle that,” Drake said crisply. 

Kon looked at him. 

“I can’t handle it with you here,” Drake said, growing impatient. 

“Hurts,” Bart repeated, blinking in an aparent attempt to keep his eyes open. “Tim. I need --”

“I know.” Drake gave Kon a hostile look. “Go.”

“I’m going,” Kon said, and went in search of a suitable splint. 

Finding a suitable piece of wood was not as difficult as Kon had expected. A pile of ice picks in a corner yielded a suitably straight handle and Kon hurried back to rejoin Bart and Drake. As he did, he immediately understood Drake’s reason for sending him away. 

“What the deuce --”

“Really, Mr Kent, please. One would think you’ve known me long enough now to trust that I know what I’m doing.”

Kon swallowed. This -- “You’re letting him feed from you?”

“You did not see this, Kent.”

Kon placed the handle on the ground and settled beside them. Bart appeared completely oblivious to his presence intent on lapping at the crimson streak across Drake’s chest with moist, greedy sounds. As their friend, Kon felt he was perfectly justified being unnerved by this. 

“Is that --”

“It’s perfectly safe,” Drake assured Kon. “Bart will take only what he needs for the vampyre within him to heal himself.”

“Is that what he’s doing?” Kon asked, but at that moment, Bart pulled away. 

Bart seemed to be having less trouble focusing now, running his hand gently along Drake’s cheek as he looked at him with an expression, that if looks were words, would probably have been indecent. “Tim,” he said, and paused, his tone full of invitation and suggestion. “M’gonna sleep.”

And with that, he folded against Drake’s chest, completely unconscious. 

“See?” Drake said, carefully gathering up his discarded shirt and ripping it into bandages. “Perfectly safe. Let’s tend to his arm now, while he’s unconscious.”

Kon helped Drake set and bind Bart’s broken arm. He couldn’t help but glance at the criss cross of scars on Drake’s chest as he did. “Those are from Luthor -- Ah! That’s how the two of you escaped the cage!”

“Yes, Kent. So glad to have you with us at last.”

“You told me you got out of there only due to your wits and cunning!”

“While that might have been a slight exaggeration, I really don’t feel that, given the current circumstances, it is anything to be upset about --” Drake was shivering. Kon somehow had the feeling that remarking on this fact would not be welcome, and concentrated instead on getting Bart’s arm bound as quickly as he could. 

“That will do until we get home,” Drake decided. “Now, I’ll carry him, if you --”

“Wait,” Kon said. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

Drake looked at Bart. “I’ve done everything I think I could be reasonably expected to do --”

“No,” Kon said. “Your chest.” He gestured to the vivid red gash Drake had cut. “Aren’t you going to bind that?”

“If you insist,” Drake said. “Although I do feel that getting Bart home is our first priority --”

“I insist.”

Using the last of Drake’s shirt as bandages, Kon carefully wrapped the wound. Drake was definitely shivering now, and Kon was just glad that they could get both of them out of the warehouse soon. He’d already donated his coat to Bart. 

“Why your chest?” he asked as he worked. “Isn’t the neck more traditional -- or even the wrist in terms of convenience --”

“Scars invite questions,” Drake said. “And the last thing I need is Mrs Mac deciding I’m suicidal, or the Foundation asking questions.”

“They don’t know about this?”

“It’s unlikely they’d approve if they did,” Drake said. “I haven’t misled them. I’ve just made . . . certain omissions in my reports.”

“That’s what you call it, is it?” Kon tied off the last bandage. “Are you sure you don’t want me to take Bart?”

Drake’s territorial leanings won out over his physical condition and the three of them made their way out of the warehouse surreptitiously, Bart asleep on Tim’s back, being carried piggyback style, Kon’s coat over his shoulders, hiding his bandaged arm from view. Tim wore his own jacket over his bandages, and the three of them were presentable enough that they managed to stop a cab. 

The driver accepted them as young gentlemen having a night on the town easily enough, although he did look askance at Bart. 

“If your friend chunders in my cab, you’re paying the cleaning bill.”

“Naturally,” Drake said, settling Bart at his side, and giving the man his address. 

Kon noticed that through the whole exchange, Drake had kept one hand on the gun in his pocket. “What is it?” he whispered, as Drake sat down again. 

“I very much fear that this night is not even close to over,” Drake said back, just as quietly. “Do you remember how Harm reacted to the lure of living vampyre blood?”

Kon couldn’t say that he did. 

“The older the vampyre, the more powerful. Bart’s bloodline -- it goes back centuries, possibly even a millenium. We speculate that vampyres can gain some of that power by consuming older opponents -- in this case, Bart.”

“But Bart’s not a vampyre.”

“At the moment, he’s nearer vampyre than human, and he’s wounded. They can smell his blood, and they’ll come.”

“Like sharks.”

“Not a bad analogy. My house is warded against them, if we’re lucky the fact that we’re moving will throw them off our track just long enough for us to get there.”

Kon glanced at Drake. Bart rested peacefully against his shoulder as Drake loaded his pistol with small, metal bullets. 

“Made from churchyard iron,” Drake explained. “It’s the vampyre equivalent of a silver bullet.”

“You’re very well prepared,” Kon said. 

“Someone has to be. Lord knows Bart’s not going to do it.”

That was certainly true, although given how disparagingly Drake spoke of Bart sometimes, and his attitude towards him . . . “Why do you do this?”

“I beg your pardon?”

Kon shrugged, indicating Bart and the whole situation. “All the arguing the two of you do, and now this. It doesn’t seem worth it.”

Drake was silent so long, Kon feared he had seriously offended. 

“I beg your pardon,” he said. “It’s a personal affair, it’s not my place to ask --”

“I don’t think I understand, Kent,” Drake said. “I do it because it’s Bart and I cannot do otherwise. What more is there than that?”

Kon couldn’t think of a way to answer that. 

Bart stirred. “Wings of the night,” he said, without appearing to wake. “Greedy in the dark, they come . . .”

“B---- it,” Drake said, tossing the incendiary gun to Kon. “I think we can expect company.” He leaned out the window to ask the driver to drive faster.

It wasn’t more than a few minutes later, that the horse whinnied. 

“That’s one worried horse,” Kon said. 

“Is that your professional opinion as a country boy?”

“As a matter of fact it is,” Kon pushed back the carriage window and leaned out to see what was happening. “I know when a horse is scared and that horse-“ He saw a quick flash of shadow over head and suddenly a dark, twisted form, manifested itself in the middle of the road before them. The horse reared in panic, bringing the carriage to an abrupt stop and throwing Bart and Drake to the floor. 

Holding onto the window, Kon was only just able to keep his balance. As the cabbie fought to get the spooked horse back under control and the thing in the shadows stalked closer, Kon saw another two shadows solidify and step out to meet them. 

“Vampyres, check,” he announced.


	16. Our heroes are having quite the night out.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That cabbie really let the side down.

The incendiary bullets proved just as effective on vampyres as they were on zhombies. Kon watched one stumble back into the shadows with a pained hiss, and took opportunity of the brief breather to size up the situation. Drake leaned out the other window, sniping at the other vampyres, and yelling at the cabbie. 

“For G---’s sake, man, control your horse!”

“They’re outmatched -- surely they must see that!” Kon said, firing another incendiary bullet dead at his persistent vampyre. “Why then do they continue to attack?”

“One bite of Bart and it’ll all be worth it,” Drake said, crisply, not taking his eyes of his targets. “Don’t let your guard down -- a super-powerful vampyre is the last thing we need right now.”

“You’re telling me,” Kon said turning back to his window. A clawed hand made a swipe at him, and he yelped, firing reflexively and taking the vampyre’s head off. “Oh. Well, that’s one down.”

“Make that three.” Drake tucked his gun away inside his jacket. “Well. I think that went as well as could be hoped for.”

He was quickly proven wrong. 

“Failure to complete an agreed upon journey is a grievance listed under the charter of the Carriage drivers and Transport workers!” Drake yelled after the retreating Cabbie. “Not to mention that in deserting your vehicle and passengers, you’ve created a road hazard! I’ve taken your number and will be writing to your superiors immediately we get home!” 

The cabbie didn’t reply. He’d taken advantage of the lull in fighting to free the horse from the carriage and take off on it. Kon and Drake had realized his intentions too late to stop him and Drake huffed angrily as cabbie and horse disappeared around the corner. 

“Really! After we saved his life and everything, he didn’t have to take the only horse!”

Kon didn’t think that pointing out that it was probably their fault that the cabdriver was attacked in the first place would help any. “What now? Do we stay here?”

“The carriage itself isn’t going to offer us any protection against vampires,” Drake said. “And staying in one place will only give them time to find us and the advantage of numbers. No, there is only one option before us.”

“We walk?”

“Quite.” Drake poked the tattered clothes that were all that remained of one of his vampyres and emerged with a battered looking rapier that he tucked into his belt. “I hardly need tell you that this situation is much to our disadvantage. It will take us at least an hour on foot to get to my house, in which time who knows how many vampyres we will encounter. We’d best press on.”

Kon nodded, helping Bart from the carriage and onto his back. Bart took the shift with equamity, Kon wasn’t even sure he was aware that he’d been moved.

The streets were mostly bare, resolutely empty of any vehicle that could give them a ride, making the shadows even more noticeable. Kon increased his pace to catch up with Drake. “Behind us --”

“Ahead of us too,” Drake said crisply, and Kon’s heart sank. He’d half hoped that he was imagining the things following them. “They obviously plan to ambush us. Let’s not give them the chance.” He stopped, pulling Kon against a building so that at least their backs were covered and drew his gun. “All right. We know you’re out there, so show yourselves.”

There was a moment’s paused and then the shadow’s seemed to ripple with movement. Kon took a step back to bump against the building’s wall at the sudden appearance of fur and teeth and claws, and Bart made a soft sleepy noise of protest. 

“I think I preferred them in the shadows,” Drake said, backed up against the wall beside Kon.

Kon nodded, carefully not to make sudden movements -- or what was the other thing that Bart had said? Avoid eye contact, that was it. 

Of course, thinking that meant that as a wolf stepped closer to him, the first thing that Kon looked at were its eyes. Blue, bright as the summer sky. 

“It’s Mia!” Kon said. 

“Are you sure?” Drake said out of the corner of his mouth, not moving at all. 

“Perfectly,” Kon said. “Look. Miss Dearden’s wagging her tail at me and everything. I’m sure it’s her.” At the wolf’s bark, apparently of affirmation, Kon glanced at the other wolves. 

He’d thought that Miss Dearden was a huge wolf, but compared to the others of her pack, she was downright dainty. Clearly in charge was the sandy-coloured wolf, huger than any wolf had a right to be -- Lord Queen, Kon hazarded. At his back was another wolf, strikingly similar in colouration to Lord Queen. The rest of the pack ranged in colour and size from Miss Dearden, grey and fierce, to a bulky young male who lurked to one side and had something very familiar in his aspect --

“Coyote?” Kon wondered. 

“Don’t antagonise them,” Drake said urgently. “What are they doing?”

“I don’t know but I think Lord Queen wants to be going -- what’s that?” Kon paused as the wolf jerked his muzzle towards the road, and barked. “I think they want us to go that way.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No, and I don’t think they are either.”

“As we seem to have no choice,” Drake said thinly. “You go first with Bart. I’ll provide cover.”

Kon did as he was bid. 

The wolves moved into what was nearly an organised formation, Lord Queen out in front, with the rest of them taking either side and behind in a diamond-like formation. Miss Dearden moved into position beside Kon and trotted along at his side with all appearance of happiness. Kon glanced at her and she flicked her ears at him. 

“Nice night for a walk, isn’t it?”

“Is it really necessary to make conversation with the werewolves? We are in mortal peril here, in case you’d forgotten.”

“Sorry,” Kon said to Drake. To Miss Dearden, he explained “Please excuse Mr Drake. He’s worried about Bart -- yes, he was hurt quite badly, but Drake saw to him and I think he’ll be all right if we can get him home without mishap. What? No, I’m fine, really. He’s no weight at all.”

“I don’t believe this.”

“We don’t seem to be in mortal peril right this moment,” Kon pointed out, giving Miss Dearden an amused grin. 

Miss Dearden responded by showing Kon a rather lot of teeth. Kon took a step back involuntarily. 

Only one incident occurred to interrupt their walk. 

Lord Queen halted abruptly and growled at the path in front of them. Instantly, and in unison so perfect that it had to have been in response to some signal, the coyote-were and the smaller sandy-coloured male padded off into the shadows. The rest of the wolves moved protectively around Drake and Kon, some sitting, others choosing to chase after fleas or sniff the night air.

After a few minutes, the wolves around them suddenly stood again. It was unnerving, the way they communicated without Kon being able to detect a sound or look passing between them. Although alert, the wolves did not seem tense, and a few seconds later the two wolves Queen had sent ahead returned. The smaller wolf dropped a few shreds of fabric at Lord Queen’s feet and the great wolf nosed it curiously. Then, evidently deciding that everything was in order, Queen barked sharply and they were off again.

“Did you see what that was?”

“Dark material, looked like an evening coat,” Drake said. “I’m guessing vampyre.” He seemed to have cheered up slightly. 

Kon had no idea how long they’d been walking when the wolves next halted. 

“What now?” Kon asked. 

“We’re home,” Drake said. “This is my street -- my house.”

Queen barked, amused at their surpise and gave them the wolfish equivalent of a smirk, his tongue lolling out. With a snort, he turned his back on them and melted into the shadows, quickly followed by the rest of his rag-tag pack. 

Kon waved goodbye to Miss Dearden. “Can’t say I’ve ever been escorted home by a full wolf-pack before.”

“Enjoy it while you can,” Drake said, unlocking the door. “Because I don’t intend -- Mrs Mac?”

“Oh, Timmy! Thank heavens you’re back! It’s been dreadful! That man from the League came by and the phones been going all night and the -- my goodness, is Bartholemew . . . ?” 

“He’s all right, Mrs Mac. I’ve seen to him. We just need to get him into bed --”

“But he looks seriously hurt -- is his arm broken? We need a doctor right away --”

Bart stirred, groggy against Kon’s back. “Mrs Mac,” he said in a voice velvet-smooth and heavy with suggestion. “Please stop talking.”

“Look at me, blathering on when you’ve just got back! I do beg your pardon,” Mrs Mac said and fell silent. 

Kon glanced at Drake. There was something wrong about that exchange. His feeling of unease deepened as Bart continued in that same weighty tone. 

“You should be in bed.”

“Heavens, the time! I must be in bed. Goodnight, Master Tim, Mr Kent, Bart. I’ll see you in the morning.” And she walked down the corridor in her cap and nightgown for all the world as though she had just decided to go to bed herself.

“Drake --”

“I think bed sounds like a plan,” Drake said and his voice was calm and cheery. “Shall we?” he beckoned to the stairs. 

Kon followed, still carrying Bart. “What is going on? That wasn’t --”

“There’s a time and a place for everything, Kent,” Drake sing-songed at him. “And now isn’t the time.”

Bart nuzzled the back of Kon’s neck sleepily, laying his cheek against it as he settled. “M’tired.”

“I know. We’ll put you to bed at once,” Drake said, opening the door to his room. 

Kon had never been inside the master bedroom before, and he wasn’t really in the mood to look around now. He got Bart settled on the bed as quickly as he could, and waited as Drake checked that Bart’s broken arm was still bound correctly, and inspected the head wound. 

“You rest here,” Drake told him, petting Bart’s hair gently. “I’ll just have a quick word with Kent.”

“Don’ stay too long.”

“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” Drake promised, pushing Kon out the door.

“What’s going on?” Kon asked.

Drake pulled the door tightly shut behind them before answering. “Compulsion.”

“In English?”

“Higher level vampyres are rumoured to have the ability to compell their victims and others around them -- to control their will, Kent.”

“But -- Bart’s not a high level vampyre!”

“Technically,” Drake allowed. “But he has been displaying some very vampyric traits tonight, and I’m not in a mood to see how deep they go.” He gripped Kon’s arm tightly. “Humour him,” he ordered. “Do nothing that might excite or anger him -- and above all, do not let on that you notice any change in him. If he feels threatened --”

Kon swallowed. 

“Tim?” 

“Coming!” Drake looked seriously at Kon. “Do you understand me, Mr Kent?”

Kon understood but was still aghast. “But -- you surely don’t mean to go back in there?”

“Bart called me,” Drake frowned. “You don’t expect me to risk antagonising him by not going to him?”

“But -- who knows what unnatural acts he might compell you to do!”

Drake stared at him a moment. “That . . . is a risk I am prepared to take.” He nodded to Kon. “I must take my leave of you, Mr Kent.”

Kon was left alone in the hall. He hesitated. On the one hand, he was safe and Drake had not asked for his assistance. On the other -- well, not just Drake but Bart too was at stake. 

He followed Drake.


	17. In which Drake makes the ultimate sacrifice and Kon is cruelly used.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The weirdest team-bonding ever.

Bart had climbed from the bed, shedding Kon’s coat and his own ripped shirt in the process, and stood before the window in a full patch of moonlight. He didn’t look up as Kon entered the room, absorbed in unravelling the bandages that bound his arm. 

“Vampyres can heal in the light of the full moon,” Drake said quietly to one side, and Kon glanced at him, half-hidden in the shadows. “He must be pretty close to full strength by now -- whatever his full strength is like this.”

Kon really wished he hadn’t thought about that. “This night just gets better and better.”

“On that we agree.” Bart’s smile glittered white in the moonlight as he beckoned Drake to him, the last of the bandages falling to the floor. 

Drake kissed Bart’s cheek in the most tender gesture Kon had ever seen him use, and stood behind Bart, hands gently rubbing his shoulders. Kon had to admire his fore-thought - the gesture was reassuring and comforting without being obvious about it, and Bart leaned back against him, smiling up at Drake as he reached in to stroke Drake’s cheek. He seemed more affectionate than predatory, and Kon breathed a sigh of relief, taking a step towards the door, intending to leave Drake to manage the situation without the added hindrance of his company. 

He should be so lucky. 

“Conner.” 

Kon had to stop. That voice was too rich, too inviting to say no to. 

“You’re not leaving.”

Well, naturally, Kon decided, turning around again. It wouldn’t be fair to leave Drake alone. Look at him now, that glance that he was giving Kon over Bart’s shoulder was definitely troubled - oh. So that was mind control. 

Bart smiled at him, secure in his command of the situation, before turning his attention to Drake. Kon had to admire his courage. A smile that hungry pointed at him would have encouraged him to take a step backwards but Drake barely flinched. Kon certainly wouldn’t have been brave enough to step towards him.

“Bart,” Drake said carefully, stroking Bart’s hair. “I’m glad that you’re feeling better but I do think Mr Kent would prefer to - ah, careful with that.”

Kon watched Bart drop Drake’s jacket to the floor with misgivings. Leaving did seem like a good idea but his head was heavy and hot and his limbs strangely unresponsive. He could only watch as Bart ran his fingers down Drake’s chest, bare now save for the bandages, and leaned in close.

“You’re hungry again? I’m sorry, Bart, but I’m not sure it’s a good idea for me to lose any more blood tonight -“ Drake trailed off as Bart interrupted him. 

Kon could feel his cheeks burn. He was pretty certain that Bart licking Drake’s neck as his hand - uh - his hand was busy elsewhere -- was way up there on the list of things he was never meant to see. “Uh, I should -“

Go? That thought was very unsatisfying somehow. Kon frowned as his mind clouded once again, and it happened that the only thing his interruption accomplished was transferring some of Bart’s attention to him. 

“Conner,” Bart said, with that rich, heavy voice. “Come over h-mmph!”

Drake had moved to quickly grip Bart’s shoulders and pull him in for a kiss. Kon had to hand it to him - annoying, yes, but when the occasion called for it, he certainly rose to the challenge. There he was, kissing Bart in a valiant effort to distract him long enough to free Kon from the vampyre’s control. When all this was over, Kon might have to apologise to him.

Bart certainly seemed appreciative of the kiss, if his malleability as Drake steered him towards the bed, careful to keep Bart’s back to Kon in the process, was anything to go by. Drake certainly wasn’t taking chances as he tipped Bart back on to the bed and moved to cover him with his body. 

Kon had never ever thought that he could watch the two of them engage in lewd acts and feel relieved about it, but at last the heaviness in his thoughts was lifting and his head felt less clouded. Although he still felt very reluctant to step towards the door, he managed a step backwards, and then another. A third step and Kon felt that he might just be able to escape this perilous situation, sanity and dignity intact -

The words were a caress over the back of his neck, lingering and tempting. “Conner, come to bed.” Kon no more thought of resisting them than he thought of drawing breath. 

Drake drew himself onto one elbow as he watched Kon join them on the four poster. “Bart,” he said, voice calm and face carefully blank. “I really don’t think -“

“I’m not asking you to think, Tim,” Bart’s voice was much more like his own, amused, even as it still held the threat - or was it promise? Kon couldn’t make up his mind - of power. “In fact, it would be much more helpful if you would stop thinking and - Conner, really! Did no one teach you to take your shoes off before going to bed?”

Kon looked at his feet. “Sorry,” he said, swinging his legs over the side of the bed in order to remove his boots. “I was distracted.” It was hard to think clearly, so muddied were his thoughts. 

“That’s all right, Conner. You should take your shirt off as well. Otherwise, you’re overdressed.”

“Bart,” Drake started as Kon obligingly unbuttoned his shirt. It was a trifle embarrassing to be shirtless in such company, true, but this fact was more than outweighed by how suddenly hot he felt. Much better to be rid of it. “This isn’t --”

“Tim,” Bart countered, “I believe you forgot to remove your shoes as well.”

Kon paused. There was something going on, some undercurrent here that he could feel but not discern, and he watched Drake and Bart stare at each other and tried to work out what it was he wasn’t seeing. At last, after what seemed like ages, Drake knelt beside the bed to undo his shoes. Bart smiled a pointed smile, petting Drake’s hair gently, and Kon’s confusion only deepened. For some reason, he thought it was more usually Bart who was petted like that --

“Is this right? This --” Kon almost didn’t recognise his own voice, he sounded that uncertain. “I don’t understand --”

“Crawl over here, Kon, and I’ll see if I can’t elucidate things for you.” Bart’s smile was pure temptation, and Kon found himself somehow at Bart’s side with no memory of telling his body to take him there. 

Bart’s fingers travelled slowly across Kon’s chest as Bart pushed him back onto the bed. “Such a nice body,” he approved. “Farm living does have much to recommend it. I imagine you taste of sunlight and fresh air --” His lips brushed Kon’s neck, so close to his skin that Kon felt his breath like a caress. “Don’t you want to taste him, Tim?” 

“You can’t do this, Bart. It’s not right.” Drake’s voice sounded . . . choked somehow, and Kon opened his eyes to see him at Bart’s back, his hands resting on Bart’s shoulders in an almost restraining gesture. “He hasn’t chosen this.”

Kon was confused, but Bart seemed to get Drake’s meaning, pouting as he replied. “You are being very vexing tonight,” he said. “All I want to do is play a little. No harm in playing.”

Of course there wasn’t, Kon thought. How could there be? It seemed Drake agreed.

“No harm,” he repeated. “I don’t know what I was thinking . . .”

Bart’s expression was triumphant. He pulled Drake close to him and kissed him. His head still pleasantly clouded, Kon watched, unable to remember why the sight might make his guts twist themselves so. Bart seemed very much in charge of this kiss, Drake gasping at the onslaught and Kon found the sound, the admission of need on Drake’s part, somehow fascinating . . . that is, if the way his mouth was suddenly dry was any indication. 

“Good Tim,” Bart purred, stroking Drake’s hair, and letting a hand roam over Kon’s stomach. “See? Isn’t it much better if everyone plays together?” He licked the side of Kon’s neck and Kon found himself shivering in the most delicious way possible. 

The heat was everywhere now, not just his thoughts, in the patterns Bart was making with his tongue, his clever fingers, pooling in Kon’s groin and bringing back memories of past encounters, of skin and though he’d never thought he’d want a man that way, Kon thought that he might want this --

Bart planted one last kiss to Kon’s neck and rested his cheek against Kon’s chest. He let one hand rest on Kon’s hip, the other waving Drake to his side. “There,” said Bart happily, as Drake curled up against him. “Isn’t that better?” And apparently completely satisfied, he shut his eyes, to all appearances intending to go to sleep.

Kon, who had been expecting somewhat more, was rather non-plussed. “Is that it?”

Bart didn’t bother opening an eye to respond. “Goodnight, Kon.”

“Kent,” Drake said carefully. “Don’t speak.”

“But after you and him and everything -- I just feel --”

“Pillows shouldn’t talk,” Bart said, in tones of deepest dissatisfaction. 

Kon was outraged. “Pillow?”

Drake snickered, an unwise move as Bart opened his eyes to glare at him. 

“Neither should blankets,” he said, poking Drake in the ribs. “Or would you prefer to sleep on the floor?”

“Goodnight, Bart, Kent,” Drake said, evidently making his decision. 

Kon was still unhappy. “All I’m saying is that nobody likes a teas--mmph!”

Drake had decided to use his clever silencing technique on Kon. It was no less effective the second time, and Kon, who was almost growing accustomed to being kissed by men, was still stunned enough that the kiss left him momentarily speechless, and fully cognizant of the situation. 

“Right,” he said, hoping his cheeks weren’t as red as they felt. “Let sleeping vampyres lie. Got it.”

Drake smirked at him. “I thought you’d agree,” he started. 

Bart huffed impatiently. “For crying out loud, you two! Sleep.”

And helpless as ever before that voice, Kon slept. 

His dreams were hot and confused, composed of shadowy figures, touch and skin, near but not near enough that he could recognise them. The voices that hinted at forgotten promises and pleasure in his ears were familiar and close but when he reached out to touch them they melted to nothing under his touch. Distracted by this fruitless game of hide and seek, Kon realised too late that he had lost -- something. Panicked, he turned to look for it and started awake, blinking confused at the morning sunlight playing across the roof of Drake’s four-poster. 

Kon sat up cautiously. 

Drake was still asleep, sprawled across the bed in an extremely undignified position, but Bart was gone. Kon crawled carefully to the side of the bed to look for him. 

He spotted Bart almost immediately, sitting curled in the corner of the window seat, his chin resting on his knees as he gazed out over the new day. The curtains were drawn, and the sunlight played over his hair, turning it almost copper in places. 

Kon took a step towards him. “Bart? What are you doing?”

Bart glanced at him, and his eyes were light, the warm colour of the sunlight. “Vampyres are dispelled by daylight,” he said and it was his voice, nothing else, and Kon thought it might be the sweetest thing he’d ever heard. “We survived.”

Kon found Bart’s grin infectious. “I guess we did,” he said and oofed as Bart collided with him in what was apparently a hug. He grinned down at Bart as he patted his hair. “We survived.”

“Observational skills as keen as ever, I see,” Drake observed, stirring ever so slightly. “Kent? Get ready. I give him another 5 seconds at most.”

“Ready for what?” Kon asked and just barely managed to catch Bart as he folded suddenly. 

“Put him here,” Drake said, patting the bed beside himself. “He has a tendency to overdo things. He’ll most likely spend the rest of the day asleep.”

A day ago, Drake’s confident assertion might have irked Kon, now he found it somehow comforting. “He’ll be all right then?”

“Yes, once he’s slept it off.” Drake supervised Bart being tucked into bed and leaned against the headboard to gently pat Bart’s hair as he slept. “We were very lucky, Kent.”

Kon found himself warmed at the ‘we’ in that sentence. For the moment, at least, he didn’t feel like an interloper, nor did it seem that Drake considered him one. “We were.”


	18. In which there is a morning after.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kon receives an invitation and Grayson calls on Tim.

When Kon returned to the bedroom, fresh from the shower and with a towel still hanging around his neck, it was to find that Mrs Mac had evidently been by, leaving a tray of tea and crumpets. Drake had moved only far enough from Bart’s side to change his clothes and fetch pen and paper. 

“Most shocking derilection of duty -“ he murmured under his breath as he scribbled frantically across the sheet of paper. “Am not entirely certain that the fellow is right in the head. Not only was his conduct callous in the extreme, but -“ he paused. “Would you say that our cab-driver’s dress was slovenly, Conner?” 

“I can’t say I noticed,” Kon said, helping himself to a crumpet. “I was more concerned about the impending doom.” He wondered with a pleased sort of surprise when exactly he had become Conner.

“Hmm,” said Drake thoughtfully. “I certainly thought he was slovenly. In fact,” and he picked up his pen again, “I wouldn’t be surprised if he had been drinking -“

Kon took another crumpet and a cup of tea, keeping his amusement to himself. “Newspaper arrived yet?”

“Not yet, although there was something in the mail for you.” Drake lowered his writing paper to eye Kon meaningfully. “Two somethings in fact.”

“Oh?” Kon found the two letters placed on the second tier of the breakfast tray. They were both addressed to him, written by what were clearly feminine hands. “Well, this one’s from Anita,” Kon said, using the butterknife to open the envelope. “I’m not sure about the other.”

“What does the charming Miss Fite have to say?” Drake asked, taking the butterknife away from Kon. He walked to a cabinet in the corner, which Kon had first taken to be a wardrobe, but he now saw was a fold out desk, and removed a letter opener as well as an envelope for himself.

“She bids us contact her at the earliest available opportunity,” Kon said. “Earliest is underlined three times.”

“I see,” Drake handed the letter opened to Kon. “And your other correspondent?”

“You’re awfully interested in my mail,” Kon observed, opening the letter. “I wonder that you didn’t just check the reverse of the envelope.”

“She didn’t leave a return address.”

Kon stared at him, but Drake seemed to feel no shame in admitting casual snooping in Kon’s affairs.

“Well?” Drake stared back. “Aren’t you going to open it?”

With some misgivings, Kon did. 

The letter did not have quite so enthusiastic underlining as Anita’s, but made up for this lack in volume. 

Dear Mr Kent, it read. 

I hope you do not mind me calling you ‘dear’ when indeed, we have only met on two occasions, but it seemed customary when starting a letter. For that matter, I sincerely hope that you do not mind me writing to you and I trust that this letter will not cause you any undue feelings of embarrassment or discomfort. I simply felt that in light of the aid which you so nobly rendered me, and my subsequent display of ingratitude (I am terribly sorry about that. Being a werewolf does tend to interfere with one’s reason and judgment. Please rest assured that I did not intend to devour you at all, and had I in fact done so, it would be to my continued regret and sorrow) I owed you an expression of thanks. Our meeting last night only reinforced my conviction that you are a gentleman most deserving of my deepest and most heartfelt apology, and I would like, with Lord Queen’s permission, to extend an invitation to you to call upon us for dinner at your convenience. 

Your humblest and most concerned friend,

Mia Dearden. 

PS. I trust Mr Allen is making a steady recovery? Lord Queen wishes that I add that we will do anything we can to be of service to him. Yrs, &Etc. &etc. 

“I notice she didn’t ask after my health,” Drake observed.

“Dinner with werewolves,” Kon said. “I wonder what Prof Harper would say to that.”

“I was in at least as much mortal peril as you were, perhaps even more, but do I get a letter?”

“And a Lord to boot. I don’t think I have anything to wear to a Lord’s place. Does he have a townhouse or a mansion? What do I do if I don’t know what fork to use?”

“From what I’ve heard of Lord Queen’s establishment, chosing the right fork will be the least of your worries,” Drake said. 

“What the deuce is that supposed to mean?”

“Oh,” said Drake in that irritating tone that meant he wasn’t going to tell Kon. “Nothing.”

Kon eyed him sourly. For all his deepened understanding of, and respect for Drake, he still had an overwhelming urge to smack the man. Deciding to ignore him pointedly, Kon shifted to look out over the street, a position chosen more for the fact it put his back towards Drake than any desire to look into the street. This, however, did not prevent him from noticing the carriage that pulled up at just that moment.

“Hullo,” said Kon curiously. “I thought you said that no one in polite society made calls before ten?”

“Naturally,” Drake said halfway through his own crumpet. “That’s common courtesy, it’s not hard to understand, Conner.”

“I know that,” Kon said. “But it appears your friend Grayson needs a reminder--” He blinked as Drake abandoned the crumpet to look out the window, then swore. 

“Don’t just stand there -- quickly, get ready!”

“Ready for what?” Kon asked bewildered, as Drake grabbed up the clothes that he’d worn the previous evening, still battle-stained and tattered and kicked them under the bed. 

“Last night never happened!” Drake said. “You don’t know anything about it.” He was at the bed now, scanning the sheets. “D------!” 

Kon caught a quick hint of blood as Drake tugged the sheet off the bed, obviously his chest wound had bled in the night. “But Grayson is Foundation, isn’t he? Doesn’t he know about all of this?”

“Not about Bart,” Drake said, contemplating their sleeping companion. Bart made a sleepy sound of protest as Drake threw the sheet on top of him and then bundled the whole lot up and shoved it into his wardrobe.

He’d just barely got the door shut before the bedroom door flew open and Grayson strode in. 

“Morning,” said Drake striving for carelessness, and Kon nodded in greeting.

Grayson was not impressed. “I cannot fail to notice that you have all your limbs attached,” he said by way of greeting. “And are not confined to bed by a malady so serious that you cannot stir, nor are you in grievous peril, the only possible circumstances I can think of in which it would be acceptable for you to miss an urgent meeting.”

“Best of the day to you too,” Kon said. 

Drake elbowed him, giving him an ‘I’ll handle this’ look. “You must forgive me. This is the first I’ve heard of any meeting --”

“I find that very hard to believe,” Grayson said scathingly. “Oracle made numerous attempts to contact you last night, and I impressed upon your housekeeper the urgency of notifying you of the situation as soon as you returned –“

So that was what Mrs Mac had been trying to tell them! In the midst of everything, Kon had completely forgotten that occurrence. He looked to Drake to see his reaction. 

Drake was grim. “She was flustered last night when we returned, and she did say you’d been in contact, but with everything else that was happening, she did not complete her message and it never occurred to me to give the matter another thought.”

“It didn’t occur to you,” Grayson repeated, icily. “Well.”

The scorn in his voice must surely have rankled, but Drake just bowed his head.

Kon was moved to defend him. “There were extenuating circumstances.”

“Mr Kent,” Drake said, stepping on his foot. “Grayson does not wish to be troubled with mere trivialities.”

Fighting a monstrous giant zhombie, being besieged by hungry vampyres and herded through the bystreets of London by a full pack of werewolves, not to mention being compelled by Bart, dangerously close to being a vampyre, were ‘mere trivialities’? Kon opened his mouth in protest but Grayson bet him to it. 

“I thought as much,” he said, and his tone was no longer hostile. “You wouldn’t have missed the meeting without good reason, and even then. What happened?” As Drake hesitated, Grayson continued. “It’s not like you to act so irresponsibly without cause. You can tell me, or I’ll find out about it on my own but I know you, Tim. If anyone can understand –“

“It’ll be you,” Drake said with a sigh. “Understood.” He resumed his seat with a sigh. 

Kon was left uncertain what to do. Grayson clearly was here on Foundation business, and though neither had asked him to leave, he felt like he was intruding. On the other hand, even if Drake was an irritating git, it didn’t seem right to leave him to be scolded alone. “I should –“

“Have a seat, Kent,” Drake said, evidently reading Kon’s mind. “You were present for all of this, and as our resident zhombie expert, I imagine you’ll have things to add.”

Kon sat.

“Zhombie,” said Grayson. “Of course. You went after that monstrous zhombie that you reported at the warehouse.”

Drake nodded. “I hardly need relate to you my reasoning, but upon learning that Cobblepot owned several warehouses on the docks used to store the ice not far from where we happened upon the Voduin ceremony –“

“I follow,” Grayson. “But only the two of you against a monster of that reputation? I wonder that you did not enlist our aid.”

“I knew the Director had you busy on another project,” said Drake. “And I borrowed the incendiary bullets and . . . the Flame-Thrower.”

Grayson paused. “Not the prototype – how did you get permission?”

Drake said nothing.

“Ah,” said Grayson. “No wonder you were reluctant to return our calls. Still, you should know that I wouldn’t turn you over to the Director. I take it this story doesn’t end well?”

“Not for the Flame-Thrower,” Drake acknowledged with reluctance. 

“It gave its life in the line of duty,” Kon offered. “I don’t think we could have taken the zhombie out without it.”

“It proved troublesome then?”

“It wounded Bart,” Drake reported. “Kent was a match for its strength, but it refused to be quelled by the usual methods. The zhombie is propelled by magic, not by its own volition and bullets, and even direct hits to nerve endings and the like had little effect. Bart shooting it directly in one eye blinded it but we needed to take it out in one disabling blow.”

“Surely the incendiary bullets would have worked easily?”

“We underestimated the zhombie’s ability to think,” Drake said and Kon nodded. 

“The zhombie was aware enough of the situation to put the flames out before they could prove effective,” he reported. “It talked and it had understanding of its surroundings and knew its name. I’ve never seen that before.”

“Is that your professional opinion as a hunter of zhombies then?”

Kon was aware that Grayson was probably mocking him, but he held his ground. “This reminds me of a case I heard about in Louisiana,” he said. “A small time hustler was murdered and his body dumped in a bayou known locally for its use in several Voduin rituals. The combination of bloody death and decaying magic resulted in a zhombie of preternatural proportions and strength that proved exceedingly difficult to kill.”

“You’re suggesting then that our zhombie was not created by normal means?”

“More investigation is of course necessary before conclusions can be formed,” Kon said. “But I think it’s certain that zhombie was no ordinary zhombie.”

Grayson nodded thoughtfully. “You mentioned Bartholemew?”

“As you said, two against a zhombie of that proportion was a tad unwise,” Drake continued. “And Bart has experience and knows enough to be discreet.”

“My opinion on Bartholemew’s nature aside, I have to admit that he is a reliable companion in these matters,” Grayson said. “And far better to have him with you where you can keep him in check than blundering about on his own.”

“He does very well on his own,” Drake protested quietly. “He’s improved a lot.”

“You said he was injured?”

“Not badly,” Drake lied. “But there was blood spilled and we had a very long time getting home. Every stray vampyre in the city must have noticed us.”

Grayson leaned in. “That’s . . . interesting. You think this relates to your theory that his bloodline –“

“Ages in accordance to the way the Vampyre gains power with age? I think so.” 

“That’s worth keeping in mind,” Grayson. “If his blood is so attractive to vampires –“

“Any sort of trap would require Bart’s co-operation and safety,” Drake said quickly. 

“Of course, of course. It’s still worth thinking about.”

Drake changed the subject. “Mrs Mac was rather concerned by our dishevelled appearance and Bart’s injury. We had a time getting back and being rather exhausted and worried for Bart, Mr Kent and I went to bed soon after. We were in no fit state to decipher the rather flustered message that Mrs Mac gave us, or even remember it.”

Grayson nodded, walking over to the wardrobe. “I suppose that’s understandable. We had a situation last night that we could have really used your help on, but it sounds as though your hands were full.” He knocked on the wardrobe. “Comfortable in there, Bartholemew?”

There was a slight pause before Bart answered. “Not particularly, no.”

“Tim’s coming back to the Foundation with me, so you should best run along,” Grayson said crisply. “We’re going to be extremely busy for the next few days, and he does not need the added distraction of your company. Oh, and try not to get wounded again?” Satisfied, he turned to Drake. “Shall we then? The Director’s furious enough over the Lord Queen incident without us being tardy as well.”

“Lord Queen?” Drake asked, grabbing tie and jacket from the back of a seat, and snatching another crumpet. His face was carefully blank, and Kon could only speculate what emotion it concealed. 

“He viciously attacked a crowd of patrons leaving a dockside bar after closing time,” Grayson reported grimly. “Most scattered in panic but several were seriously mauled, and some killed.” 

Kon and Drake stared. 

“But – surely that’s impossible!” Kon protested.

Drake agreed. “Not only is that an act entirely at odds with Queen’s beliefs and character, but he was with us last night.”

“What?”

“Travelling back with Bart injured – Queen and his pack provided us with an escort.” 

Grayson’s turn to stare. “You’re sure? No, of course you’re sure. Come on, we must inform the Director at once.”

Drake jogged down the stairs after him, following him to the carriage. “Stay with Bart today,” he yelled back over his shoulder. “Make sure he doesn’t overtax himself.”

Kon nodded, leaning over the banister to watch as the two of them hastened out the door. “Will you –“

“No time, Kent!” Drake paused a moment to let Grayson get out the door ahead of him, then turned to Kon, his expression urgent. “You must care for him till I return,” he said. “I’m counting on you, Conner.” And then he was gone.


	19. The vampyre, the priestess and the wardbrobe.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anita saves the day. And pours the tea.

Kon wasn’t sure what worried him more: That Drake had left him in charge of Bart, or that he had been left alone with Bart. Particularly after the previous night -- That was over now, Kon told himself firmly. Bart was fine. Or at least he would be, if he rested properly. 

He knocked on the door of the wardrobe carefully. “Bart? Grayson and Drake have gone on to the Foundation. You can come out of there now.”

Bart’s voice was somewhat muffled by the wood. “If it’s all the same to you, Conner, I’d much prefer to stay where I am.”

“Are you sure?” Kon paused. “Don’t you want breakfast?”

“I’m not particularly hungry at present.”

Kon wavered. “Well . . . if you insist.”

Bart could rest just as well in a wardrobe as he could in the bed, he reasoned. The fact that it was darker than the room, and thus more conductive to napping, probably made up for the lack of ventilation, and Bart was capable of making his own decisions and . . . 

“Are you sure you’re sure?”

“Positive,” Bart replied. “I just . . . need some time.”

“In Drake’s wardrobe.”

“In Tim’s wardrobe. You understand?”

“Yes,” said Kon, who didn’t. “You’ll let me know if you need anything?”

He was pretty certain that this wasn’t how Drake would have taken care of Bart. 

Bart was still refusing to emerge from the wardrobe by the time Kon had finished breakfast, and he was growing steadily more concerned. He couldn’t disturb Drake, obviously, but Anita was female, and thus possessed of feminine charm and delicacy that would be useful in this situation. She’d left Madame King-Smith’s telephone number in her letter, and Kon dialled it with alacrity.

To say Anita was glad to hear from him was an understatement. “You certainly took your time, mon,” she scolded. “I’ve been going spare. How soon can you get here?”

“Ah.” Kon glanced upstairs at the door to Drake’s room. He couldn’t see the wardrobe behind it, but he could picture Bart curled in the wardrobe’s darkness. “Not until Bart decides to come out, and that could take a while.”

“Kon? Be so kind as to make sense.”

“Bart,” Kon explained. “He’s shut himself in Drake’s wardrobe and I can’t persuade him to come out again. And I can’t leave without him because Drake charged me to take care of him.”

“Oh,” said Anita. “Dat does make things difficult. I suppose I shall have to come to you.”

“Can you do that?”

“Who do you take me for? I was planning to climb down da drainpipe anyway if you hadn’t called me within another hour. I’ll be with you as soon as I can hail a cab.”

Anita proved as good as her word. “I had a little bit of difficulty climbing the fence,” she said, handing Kon her gloves and hat. “I’ll have to remember to get Cissie to tell me where the gardener keeps the spare keys for next time.”

Kon showed her into the bedroom, where Mrs Mac was clearing away the breakfast things. 

“Do we have another for morning tea?” she said, eyeing Anita with curiousity. 

“If it’s no bother,” Kon said, introducing them. “Miss Fite is the daughter of one of my lecturers.”

“It must be nice for you to have a compatriot here,” Mrs Mac said genially. “But in England, morning tea tends to be taken in the drawing room.”

“I understand,” Kon said. “But Bart --”

Anita and Mrs Mac shared a look. “I’ll handle this,” Anita said, rapping sharply on the wardrobe. “Bartholemew? Are you all right in there?”

“Perfectly, Miss Fite.”

“Not in need of company or anything?”

“Not at all.”

“Make sure to leave the door ajar for ventilation,” Anita said, and took Kon’s arm, apparently satisfied. “A stuffy and confining atmosphere is not at all conducive to health or meditation. Come on then, Kon. I’m not sure it’s quite proper for me to be in Mr Drake’s bedroom anyway.”

“Surely you don’t intend to just leave him?” Kon protested as she drew him from the room. 

“He’ll be fine,” Anita said. “No harm ever came to anyone in a wardrobe, and besides, he’ll have to leave it eventually to use the . . .” Polite cough.

Kon wasn’t sure whether to be appalled at her callousness, or impressed that the school had produced any effect on her out-spoken tendencies. “But --”

“Leave the poor boy sulk in peace, Kon. Honestly. You’re worse than a mother,” Anita chided him. “What happened, anyway? He and Drake quarrelled?” Pause. “And where is that annoying toe-rag?”

“It’s complicated,” said Kon, who didn’t feel like telling Anita he’d shared a bed while shirtless with Drake and Bart’s Inner Vampyre. “But Grayson from the Foundation dragged Drake away to some sort of meeting and was quite scathing about it all.”

“I can quite understand the wardrobe then,” Anita said, making herself comfortable in Drake’s drawing room as though she owned the place. “Every time I’m in conversation with the Foundation they make me feel so g-- - d----- inferior --”

“Drake’s not so bad once you get to know him,” Kon offered. “Really. Now, what was so urgent you had to call this early?”

“You don’t know?” Anita was incredulous. “Don’t you read the paper, mon? It must be all over London by now!”

“I haven’t exactly had the chance yet,” Kon said. 

Anita hit him with her rolled up copy of The Times. “Dat’s no excuse! We’re investigating a series of murders, mon; It is our duty to be informed and aware, and investigate every possible lead -“

“I can’t read it if you keep hitting me with it.”

Anita flung the paper at him. 

“You’re excitable this morning,” Kon observed. 

“You’ll see why, mon. Da magical traces at da Museum are da same as our group of spookies.”

Kon was about to remark on that, when his eye fell on the front page article of The Times and he swallowed. “Mammoth Monstrous Beast of Unknown and Incredible Proportions Attacks Crowd: Police Baffled?”

“Look at the illustration,” Anita told him, her voice thick with barely contained excitement. 

Boldly headed ”Illustration taken from eye-witness description,” the picture looked like something out of a horror story. A bestial figure, complete with bulging muscles and more fangs than could possibly fit in one mouth, bristled as it threatened a group of cowering pub-goers, towering over them with a body the size of a small building. With a bit of imagination, it almost resembled . . . 

“A werewolf.” Kon swore. “No wonder the Foundation fixed on Lord Queen.”

“Well, dere aren’t many werewolves dat size in London,” Anita said. “Of course, dere is another possibility.”

“There’s more than one giant werewolf in London?”

“Think, mon. What does all dis amateur Voduin have in common?” 

Kon thought about the theft and the criminals’ choice of component. “Surely not . . . werewolves?”

“I knew you’d get it eventually,” Anita’s smile was triumphant.

“You mean to say they created this . . . werewolf?”

“Zhombie werewolf,” Anita said. “If my suspicions are correct.” 

“Isn’t that a tad overkill?” Kon wondered. 

“Werewolves are some of da toughest monsters out dere, mon. According to Bart, dere strength and regenerative ability is up dere with vampyres, and dey are fierce and fearless fighters. Course, da three-nights-of-a-month-only thing is a bit of a letdown, and dey won’t take orders from anyone who isn’t a were, and even den it’s a bit iffy. Zhombies, on da other hand -“

“Are nothing if not easily led,” Kon said. He didn’t like where this was going. “It still seems a bit, well, unlikely . . . I mean, who’s to say that there isn’t another big werewolf in London?”

“Dear Kon,” Anita said. “Sweet Kon. You are aware dat you spent a good part of da morning trying to get a part-vampyre out of a closet, and dat now you’re arguing with a Voduin priestess over what is unlikely?”

“That’s entirely different,” Kon protested, but was interrupted. 

“Less of the part-vampyre, if you will,” Bart said, nosing the door open with the corner of the morning tea tray. “Mrs Mac’s coming with the scones.”

It was amazing how neatly Bart’s arrivals coincided with food, Kon thought, but didn’t say. He opened his mouth to remark on how glad he was that Bart had decided to rejoin them, and Anita elbowed him neatly. 

“Best not to take chances,” she agreed. “I suppose as the only lady present, I should pour.”

“They are teaching you well,” Kon said, nursing his ribs sourly. “What did they have to do, threaten to break an arm or something?”

“For your information, Conner, I am capable of acting as much like a lady as the best of dem,” Anita said, nose in the air. “Sugar with your tea, Mr Allen?”

“Thank you, Miss Fite. Two lumps will do fine.” Bart accepted his cup and saucer with a slight bow. “Nice weather we’re having.”

“It is rather mellow, isn’t it? Can I interest you in a sandwich?”

“Very funny,” Kon told them. “You can quit any time, you know.”

“Did you hear anything, Mr Allen?” Anita asked, pouring herself a cup of tea with lemon. 

Bart tried not to grin. “Only the traffic.”

“Unusually busy for this time of the morning.”

“Yes, I thought so too.”

Mrs Mac arrived as predicted with scones still warm from the oven and jam and cream to go with them. Kon was mollified slightly, but still not enough to join in the fun, especially when Mrs Mac departed and the conversation did not return to its previous topic of conversation. 

“Just how long do the two of you intend to go on playing tea-parties?”

“That will depend on you, Mr Kent,” Anita said stiffly. “Bartholemew, another scone?”

Bart frowned slightly at Kon, then tipped his head towards Anita and frowned again. 

Kon got it. “What I meant to say was that your feminine charms are already so abundant that it would be pointless to continue to display them to an audience already familiar with your charm and delicacy,” Kon said. “Although I would be greatly obliged if you wouldn’t mind pouring me some tea.”

“Much better,” Anita approved. “You take yours with milk, do you not?”

“Thank you,” Kon said. “Now maybe we can discuss more important matters?”

“Certainly,” said Anita. “Bartholemew, what da h--- happened to your dress sense?”

Bart, halfway through a scone, looked confused. “Mmah waar?”

“Look at you! Did you choose your outfit with your eyes closed? Paisley does not go with more paisley.”

Bart looked at his outfit. “It was a very dark wardrobe,” he said. “I just used the first things I found.”

Anita tsked. “It shows. Well you can’t go out dressed like that.”

“We’re going out?” Kon asked, as Bart said, “No, I expect you’re right.” He put down his plate and nodded to them. “Excuse me.”

“We’ll help,” Kon said, putting down his plate too. 

Anita gave him a puzzled look as they followed Bart upstairs. “I really think Bartholemew is capable of dressing himself, Kon.”

“What happens if he decides to go back into the wardrobe again?”

Anita sighed “You have so obviously never experienced children. Kon, if a child gets it into its head to sulk, the only thing to do is ignore them. If you fuss, you’re just encouraging them.”

“I hardly think that Bart is a child, Anita.”

“Dear Kon. All you men are children.” Anita patted him on the arm. “Now, do not mention wardrobes and we will be fine. Bartholemew is a wonderful individual, but he can be a little immature at times.”

Kon didn’t get the chance to respond to that, as they’d just rejoined Bart in Drake’s bedroom. 

“Case in point,” Anita said, sotto voce. “A mess any toddler would be proud of.”

“Looking for something?” Kon asked. 

“I know he has some of my stuff here somewhere,” Bart said, digging through a drawer with careless haste. “But where is it . . . ?”

“Does he have any suits that aren’t that particular shade of dark grey?” Anita wondered, picking through Drake’s wardrobe. 

“He has a black one for funerals,” Bart said. “And a better black tailcoat for eveningwear that he looks great in. And the brown tweed is for travelling, and -“

“I stand corrected,” Anita said dryly. “Someone really needs to introduce Mr Drake to colour and -- oh, my.”

Something in her tone made Kon, who felt it very improper to disturb Drake’s belongings, look up in surprise. “What is it?”

“Mr Drake does have great taste,” Anita said, sounding somewhat strangled. “In dresses.” 

Oh.

“I don’t think you should -“ Kon started, with a concerned glance towards Bart, but Anita had already acted.

“Look at this,” she said, drawing the garment out of the wardrobe. “It’s beautiful - no, exquisite.” 

Even Kon, who was more interested in dresses when they were adorning something young and pretty, was impressed. Silk, a rare shade of faded gold, was gathered in intricately-worked ruffles over an elegant gown. Tiny seed pearls were worked into the neck and the bodice, and the thing was finished with a lace-trimmed slip in white that just peeked out from the bottom of the gown. “That must have cost a fortune,” he said. 

“Several,” Bart said, his voice somehow awry. Kon glanced at him as he continued, face carefully blank. “Those look like real pearls.”

“And to think that someone so callous could own something this beautiful,” Anita said, holding the gown out so that she could see it in the mirror, and twirling a little. “Although, of all the unnatural practices Drake could indulge in, I have to say that this is one I never suspected --”

“I’m sure he has it for a reason,” Kon said hurriedly. “He does a lot of undercover work and I imagine this is by way of a disguise -“

“The colour’s completely wrong,” Anita continued. “This dress is wasted on him.”

“It’s not meant for him,” Bart said with surprising abruptness. “Put it back.” 

“Calm down, mon. I’m putting it back,” Anita grumbled, but Kon had seen it too. The delicate creamy gold, which would have just been vapid on Drake, was the perfect compliment to Bart’s yellow eyes and brown hair - Beth, Kon corrected himself mentally. It would have looked good on Beth.

“There,” Anita said, having restored the dress to its rightful position. “Satisfied?”

“If you don’t mind,” Bart said, assuming dignity as he gathered a few bits and pieces from the floor. “I’d like to get changed in private.” 

Kon knew a cue to leave when he heard one.


	20. Bart makes a point.

Bart rejoined them just as Kon had finished telling Anita about their destruction of the giant zhombie. He hadn’t thought that his day could get much stranger, but it appeared that he was mistaken once again. 

Anita said it before Kon could. “Bartholemew, mon. Don’t take this the wrong way but those clothes . . . they are so not you.”

Bart paused a moment to look from his slate-gray trouser legs, to the matching jacket and stormy gray waistcoast. “They’re too big, certainly,” he agreed, adjusting the cuff-links on one sleeve. “But the fit isn’t that bad.”

“It’s not the fit,” Anita said. “It’s --”

“You look like you raided Drake’s wardrobe,” Kon said. 

“I did raid Tim’s wardrobe.”

“Yes, but . . .” Kon looked to Anita helplessly. Some feminine tact could really come in useful about now. 

“You look like a kid playing dress-up, mon.”

So much for delicacy.

Bart drew himself up with offended dignity. “Surely you’re not suggesting,” he said, nose in the air, “that I lack the proper air of arrogance and superiority to pull off this particular outfit? I assure you that I can be as self-satisfied as the best of them when the occasion calls for it.”

Anita clapped her hands. “Bartholemew, dat was marvellous!”

Kon was startled into a laugh. “You’re too good at that. Don’t tell me you’ve practiced?”

“Naturally,” Bart said, buffing his nails on his suit jacket with a self important air. “It would hardly do for a member of the Foundation to be sub-par at anything.”

Anita giggled. “You’ve made your point. So, I suppose the question now is, what do we do?”

Kon shrugged. He’d been involved in facing zhombies countless times before, but in his experience, the monsters usually came to him. “Well, we need to investigate this monster, but unless we know where it’s hiding -“

“And with our destruction of the giant zhombie last night, they must have realized that the docks aren’t a good place to keep horrible monsters,” Bart said. “This could be difficult.”

“Anita, you can’t cook up some kind of Voduin magic to find out where our spookies are hiding?”

“I could, but it’ll take time and ingredients, mon.”

“Maybe the werewolves would know,” Bart suggested. “I mean, wolves, tracking scents - that sort of thing.”

“True,” Anita said. “But werewolves are xenophobic at da best of times and after dis -- getting dem to talk to us will be harder dan besting one in a fight.”

“Actually,” said Kon. “I got a letter from Miss Dearden inviting me to dinner at my convenience.” He paused, uncomfortably aware of the stares Anita and Bart were giving him. “What?”

“You got a letter from a werewolf inviting you to dinner, mon?”

“Mia wrote you? How come you didn’t tell me?” Anita sounded impressed, Bart put out. 

Kon shrugged. “It just arrived this morning. It’s still upstairs, I would have told you about it but -“ Kon blinked as Anita and Bart, as one, dashed for the door. “Hey! That’s private correspondence!”

By the time Kon reached it, it was private correspondence no longer. “Did neither of you ever hear of respecting other’s personal effects?” Kon said, tucking the letter away inside his jacket with as much dignity as he could muster. 

“Kon, dearest. If you can’t trust your friends, who are you going to go for advice in conducting a love affair with a werewolf?”

Kon coughed. “What?”

“Mia fancies you,” Bart said, and there was something in his tone --

Kon shook his head. They could come to that later. Right now there was a much more important misunderstanding to be corrected. “Miss Dearden does not fancy me! Look how many times she underlined ‘concerned.’”

“Kon, dat means she admires you but doesn’t want you to think she admires you,” Anita said with authority. “You’d better call on her at once.”

“What?”

“I’ll come too,” Bart said. “I’ve got a standing invitation to dine with them as well. And we can investigate the zhombie werewolf.”

“I’m not sure--” Kon started but never got the chance to finish his protest. 

“That’s settled then,” Bart said with such authority that Kon raised an eyebrow at him. He knew clothes didn’t make the man, but he wondered if anyone had told Bart that. His sudden take-charge attitude was much more typical of Drake than Bart’s laid-back nature. “First we do a spot of ritual Voduin shopping, and then Kon and I make arrangements to call on Mia and the others.”

“Sounds like a plan to me, mon,” Anita approved. “Dat only leaves the question of when you want to do dis?”

“How about now?” Bart said, passing Anita her hat and gloves. “I don’t know about you two, but I want to go out.”

Kon hesitated. “Drake specifically said that you shouldn’t over-exert yourself,” he said. “Maybe we should leave this expedition until the morrow.”

Bart looked at him. “Tim told you to take care of me?”

Kon nodded.

“In that case, Conner,” Bart said, his grin just the wrong kind of dangerous, as he took Anita’s arm. “Try and keep up.”

\---

Anita had been right in her supposition that if anyone knew where to shop for the supernatural in London, it was Bart. “And dey’ll deliver the ram’s skull and everything! Dat really is good service - can you imagine walking around London carrying a whopping great skull with you?”

“Especially in this district,” Kon said. They were walking along what was obviously one of London’s swankier streets, the shop windows so highly polished they shone, and most of them with a suited attendant outside, bowing to the passersby, and holding the door open for the customers. 

“This is London,” Bart said, leading them into a very luxuriously furnished store. “You could walk down the street with a werewolf and a feather boa and everyone would be too reserved to look at you askance.”

“Ah, Bart--” Kon hesitated. This restaurant was stylish indeed. “Didn’t you say you were completely broke?”

“Got it covered,” Bart said confidently. “Table for three, my good man. The usual.”

The maitre d’ nodded, looking at not Bart but the suit. “Mais oui. Please follow me.”

Bart radiated smugness, but Kon was not entirely convinced. He was even less impressed when Bart rattled off orders for all three of them without looking at the menu. “Today’s special for myself and the lady, and this week’s salad for my friend. Oh, and a dessert plate to finish.” Bart handed the unopened menu back to the waiter. “This will be on the Foundation tab. Is it all right if I sign for it?”

“No problem at all, Monsieur . . . ?”

“Grayson.”

The waiter bowed. “Of course, M. Grayson.”

Well, Kon had been wondering if Bart was still upset about that morning. He waited until the waiter moved away, and then leaned over the table to hiss “You’re going to get us all in trouble.”

“Conner, relax,” Bart said with complete unconcern. 

“How can I relax? You look nothing like Grayson --” 

“And that is the beauty of it,” Bart said. “Not looking anything like Grayson is what’s going to work for us. Trust me.”

“Come on, Kon. Live dangerously,” Anita urged. Kon suspected her opinion was biased by the fact that she’d just spotted the tiered cake tray. “Besides, we can always say we didn’t know and blame Bart.”

That somehow failed to comfort Kon. 

The meal, when it arrived, was exquisite. Anita and Bart attempted to outdo each other finding new adjectives to describe it, and by the time dessert rolled around, even Kon had stopped being worried and decided that this was a meal worth spending a night in Old Bailey for. 

“My sincerest compliments,” Bart said, forging Grayson’s signature to the bill, and Kon murmured his agreement. “The chef has excelled himself once again.”

“Our thanks,” the maitre d’ murmured, bowing as he drew Anita’s chair back for her. “By the way, if I might be permitted to make an observation? Monsieurs and Mademoiselle have outdone themselves with their costumes today. Really magnifique -- Mademoiselle especially. And you’ve actually made yourself appear shorter?”

“Optical illusion,” Bart said, keeping his face straight only with difficulty. “The bias of my suit is off, so the stripes have a shortening effect.”

“I see. Most ingenious. However, I must say Monsieur’s American accent needs a bit more practice.” The maitre d’ bowed. “Do come again.”

“What the b-----” Kon said immediately they were outside. 

“Da Foundation members pride demselves on dere skill at disguises, mon,” Anita said, and she was struggling not to laugh. “Bartholemew, I can’t believe you pulled that off.”

“Revenge is best served with cake,” Bart said. “Well, what now? Should we check out the scene of the attack?”

“No,” Kon said firmly. “I think we’ve done quite enough for one day.” He’d been keeping an eye on Bart and thought he could detect a hint of fatigue about him.

Bart made no move to argue this decision with Kon, thus proving that he was more tired than Kon had realised. Anita acquiesed, eager to return to school to await the delivery of her purchases, and a cab was flagged without difficulty. 

“Is it just me, or do we seem to end up in taxis together an awful lot?” Kon wondered, as they drove towards Madam King-Smith’s establishment. 

“Kon, hush. Don’t move, mon.” Anita pointed downwards. 

Bart was leaning against Kon’s side, head slightly slumped forward. Kon gave him a gentle nudge, but he didn’t stir. “Is he . . . ?”

“Fast asleep. Isn’t dat adorable?” Anita said with far too much pleasure than was healthy. “You make an excellent pillow, Kon.”

Kon flushed a furious red. “No, I don’t! That was a complete --” He paused, coming to the belated realisation that Anita did not and could not possible know about the previous night. “I expect he’d have fallen asleep on anyone.”

Anita eyed him skeptically. “Right. Well, here’s my stop. Don’t get up to see me out -- you’ll disturb Bartholemew. That is, if you haven’t already by your shouting.”

Bart did not seem disturbed. In fact, Bart slept -- if one could pardon the expression -- like the dead. Kon ruffled his hair in an affectionate manner. Really, looking after him wasn’t all bad. Remembering Grayson’s advice, he asked the cab-driver to take them to Bart’s apartment rather than back to Drake’s townhouse.

Bart resisted being woken and moved from the taxi. “But Tim! I’m not done dancing!”

“I think you’ll find you are,” Kon said steering Bart through the front door of the building and up the stairs towards his loft apartment. “I hope you have your keys with you.”

Bart yawned as he opened his door. “You’ve seen me safely home as charged, Conner. Duty discharged and all of that.”

Kon followed Bart inside, taking care to step over the suit jacket as Bart shed it. “I thought I’d stay and keep you company. If you wanted company, that is. You seem a trifle . . . discontent.”

Kon had feared that he might be too presumptious, but Bart seemed to appreciate the friendly concern. “Conner, you are kind. I’m just a bit out of sorts is all.”

“Because of Grayson?” Kon asked, pushing a pile of novels and magazines aside to make room for himself on the chaise longue. 

“A bit. Revenge helped but I still feel . . .” Bart sank into the the battered antique armchair that was at least as much cushion as it was armchair. “It’s like no matter how much we try it’ll never be good enough. Then on other days, it’s like no matter how little it is, it’s the world. Tim, this -- it’s so confusing.”

Dash it all. Kon really wasn’t equipped to give relationship advice, especially concerning a relationship of this nature. “I’m sure he l-- esteems you highly,” he said cautiously. “I mean, there is the dress to consider --”

“Oh, G--,” Bart said. “The dress.” He sounded thoroughly miserable. 

Kon hesitated, then patted the chaise longue beside him. Bart’s unhappiness was worth surrendering some masculine principles for. “But surely that’s a good thing?”

Bart took the invitation immediately. “It’s beautiful,” he said, curling up next to Kon, each word sounding more depressed. “The colour and the craftmanship . . . I’m willing to bet that silk was custom dyed.”

Kon ruffled his hair. “Then what’s there to be sad about? Drake obviously took a lot of care in picking it out and while it’s hardly my idea of an ideal gift, you--”

“That’s the point,” Bart said, leaning against Kon’s side. “I don’t do that any more -- and he knows that.”

Oh. “It could be a mistake,” Kon suggested. “Maybe he ordered it before --”

“Impossible,” Bart said flatly. “This season’s ball styles were only introduced a few weeks ago. It has to have been newly made.”

“Oh,” said Kon. “Maybe he thought you might change your mind?”

“Thought he could change my mind, more like it,” Bart said resentfully. “It’s always the same. Anything that’s in this apartment that’s nice is from him and I hate it. I know that I need him. He doesn’t have to make it that obvious.” 

“Ah,” said Kon, uncomfortably. 

“And as if being kept by him wasn’t bad enough, I can’t even tell him to take the dress back,” Bart finished. “When I was in the wardrobe I needed something to wipe my nose on and -- you’re not allowed to laugh at me!”

Kon would have apologised, had he been able. As it was, he could do nothing to halt his chuckles. “You didn’t --”

“It’s not like I could see in the wardrobe! Or at least not well. And I didn’t know the dress was there. I thought it was a bathrobe or something -- oh, do stop laughing! It’s not that funny.” Despite himself, the edges of Bart’s mouth had quirked up. “Well, I suppose it is a bit.” He looped an arm around Kon’s shoulders loosely and leaned in for a few seconds. “Thanks Conner. You always make me feel better.”

Kon patted his back in an appropriate gesture of manly support. “It’s my pl-- any time.” Quickly casting around for a way to change the subject, he asked, “Have you ever thought about getting a job?”

Bart stopped clinging to him to stare at him. “What did you just say?”

Kon shrugged. “I just thought that if you sought employment it might give you more independance as well as broadening your interests and social circle --”

“Conner,” said Bart in tones of greatest determination.

Kon had a sudden premonition of disaster. “Yes?”

“I am going to get employment.”


	21. Dining with Wolves

Kon did not see Drake at all that night, and only a few dirtied plates at the breakfast table spoke of his presence at all. Clearly, Grayson had not been exaggerating the scope of their work. He’d given up any hope of catching Drake that day, so it was rather a pleasant surprise to come downstairs for luncheon and find him sitting at the table, arguing the propriety of serving lamb with anything other than mint sauce with Bart. 

“How’s the situation?” he asked. 

“Don’t ask,” Drake said. “The Director had a h--- of a time getting us access to the case. Some of the higher ups are putting pressure on the Yard to shut him out completely -- they feel he’s overstepped his bounds. And the failed search warrant counts against him too. Cobblepot has a lot of political clout --”

“I think I’m missing something,” Kon said, and Bart added, “You never told us anything about a search warrant yesterday.”

“Didn’t know. Apparently while we were fighting zhombie’s, the Director got permission to take a team into Cobblepot’s offices. They found nothing.”

Bart whistled. “That’s not going to go down well.”

“It’s not. The Director’s got his hands full defending his actions to Cobblepot’s allies and the rest of us are working with the little Scotland Yard can give us.”

“If you need me --”

“Sorry, Bart, but you know the drill. Situation’s too delicate to involve outside help,” Drake said, ruffling his hair. “By the way,” he said, tossing an envelope to the table. “I picked up this from the crime scene for you.”

Bart looked inside the envelope. “Cloth,” he said in tones of disappointment. “Thanks, Tim, although I was kind of hoping for a werewolf tooth or --”

Drake sighed. “Evidence, Bart. It’s not a present.”

Kon took the envelope to look at the unassuming scrap of cloth within. “You’re giving us evidence? How does that work with you not being allowed outside help and everything?”

“All I did was leave the envelope on the table,” Drake said, polishing his pocketwatch on his jacket. “I didn’t tell you to take it with you to Lord Queen’s and give it to the werewolves, did I?”

They hadn’t even had the chance to tell Drake about the phonecall and their engagement that afternoon. Kon snorted, tucking the envelope into his jacket. “Is there anyone who will believe that?”

“I can be very absent-minded on occasion,” Drake said. “Which reminds me.” He drew his pocketbook out of his pocket. “The Director decided to give you renumeration for your help the other night.”

“Help?”

“Destroying the zhombie,” Drake said, counting out bills from the thick wad of notes in his wallet. “Payment for services rendered, plus compensation for the long hours, the danger, and of course, your services as an expert of Voduin. Standard consultant’s fee.”

“But I volunteered, I --” Kon stared at the amount Drake handed him. It was nearly equal to the travelling stipend the University had awarded him. “This is far too much! I can’t possibly accept --”

Drake had already turned aside. “Bart? This is yours.”

Bart took the bills with a neutral expression. “You’ve given me more than Conner.”

“Well, naturally,” Drake frowned at him. “You were injured.”

“But I got better,” Bart said, counting out the notes, and handing a significant portion back. “Here.”

Drake frowned at Bart and refused to take them. “Bart,” he said. “You won’t receive your allowance for another two weeks. You need this --”

“But I haven’t earned it,” Bart said, tucking the notes into the front pocket of Drake’s jacket, and smoothing it carefully with his palm. “Have I?” he continued carelessly, straightening Drake’s tie.

Drake narrowed his eyes, and was on the brink of saying something when the phone rang. “We’ll discuss this further later, but for now I trust you’ll excuse me,” he said tightly, and went to answer it. 

Kon looked to Bart, still holding his own pile of notes uncertainly. “Is this . . . all right?” He appreciated being reimbursed for his efforts, certainly, but the amount of money involved . . . this was more money than Kon had ever had at his disposal in his life.

“The Foundation’s loaded,” Bart said airily, tucking the cash away inside his jacket. His clothes were a marked contrast to his outfit of the previous day. Not only did Bart prefer more cheerful colours than Drake, his light grey suit and jacket were offset by a crimson tie, but he’d foregone a waistcoat. While they both shared a style of dress suited to gentlemen, Drake’s clearly said ‘duty’ while Bart’s had the suggestion of ‘profligate,’ or ‘pleasure seeker.’ “If the Director wants to throw money at us, that’s his look out.”

“You gave it back.”

“I don’t mind the Director wasting his money. Tim is something else.”

“Right,” said Drake, returning abruptly. “Where where we?”

Mrs Mac knocked at the door before they could continue. “I beg your pardon for the intrusion, but Lord Queen’s coach has arrived to collect Mr Kent and Mr Allen.”

“We’d better take our leave then,” Bart said cheerily and Drake raised an eyebrow at him. 

“Try not to pick up fleas or anything.”

“He was joking about the fleas, wasn’t he?” Kon asked as they made their way to the waiting carriage. 

“Best not to mention them at all,” Bart said, grinning as he recognised the man waiting by the coach. “Roy!”

Roy? Kon raised an eyebrow at the rugged, red headed man, who took Bart’s enthusiastic greeting in stride, ruffling his hair and laughing at Bart’s displeasure. This was the man apparently responsible for Grayson’s deepset disapproval of anything supernatural?

For so infamous a past, Roy seemed rather easy going and likeable. He joked with Bart, displaying a good wit and ready humour, and more interestingly, a way with horses. As their horse nickered impatiently, tethered to the waiting carriage, a small, sleet 4-seater, with a retractable cover, currently folded away, he patted her neck and the horse immediately settled at his touch. 

Kon had suspected that a werewolf would have the opposite effect on animals -- maybe he wasn’t a were? Just because he was connected in some way to Lord Queen was no reason to assume . . . Kon frowned as he caught a familiar edge to Roy’s words. “You’re not from the South-West by any chance?”

“Arizona.” Roy looked at Kon curiously. “A fellow American? Pleasure to meet you.” He held out his hand. “I’m Roy Harper.”

Kon returned the handshake automatically. “Harper?” He’d completely forgotten the coincidence in surnames. If it was in fact coincidence. “I study under a professor of that name at Carnegie. Jim Harper --”

“Ah,” said Roy. “That would make you Kon.” He thumped Kon on the back heartily. “Nice to have you aboard. Climb up, and you can tell me how my uncle’s getting on.”

Kon took the seat next to the driver’s on the outside of the carriage. “He’s your uncle?”

“Much more than an uncle,” Roy said, taking the driver’s seat. “I owe him . . . I owe him everything.” He glanced back at Bart, leaning against the back of the first row of interior seats to stare at them, scandalised. “What’s the matter with you, shorty?”

“You’re calling Kon, Kon,” Bart said. “And you haven’t even been introduced yet.”

Roy laughed, flicking the reins and directing the horse down the street. “You expected me to stand on formality?”

Bart considered that. “No,” he admitted at last. “But I do think you could have waited at least a bit longer.”

“Of all the people to reprimand me over forwardness,” Roy started but Kon thought he saw where this was going. 

“You can call me Kon if you’d like, Bart.”

He’d evidently hit the mark; Bart was amiable for the rest of the journey, listening to Kon and Roy discuss the differences in decorum between the States and London, their voyages and their mutual esteem for Professor Harper, throwing in a comment here and there but mostly just content to listen. Kon, for his part, found the opportunity to talk with a fellow countryman invigorating, and it was with sorrow that he realised they’d pulled up in front of a grand old house, with extensive grounds and trees. 

“We’re here?”

“Why else would we be stopping?” Bart jumped out of the carriage without bothering to open the door. “Roy, should we wait for you?”

“Nah, just go ahead,” Roy waved them towards the house. “I’ll be with you once I’ve put Merry in the stables.”

This exchange touched on something that had been bothering Kon through throughout the trip. Roy was not at all subservient in his manner, and his freedom with Bart certainly seemed to indicate that he was not a servant. But although it was not inconceivable a gentleman might chose to drive his own carriage, he wouldn’t usually tend to the horse himself. 

“Where will we find Lord Queen?”

“Ollie will probably be around the back.”

... and a servant would most definitely not refer to a titled employer as ‘Ollie.’

As Bart led Kon around the side of the house, Kon asked, “Is Roy related to Lord Queen?”

“Only in the pack sense,” Bart said, cheerfully. “I think in the wolf heirachy, Roy’s his second. Whatever that’s called.”

“He’s not his stableman then?”

Bart laughed. “H--- no. Lord Queen’s very . . . progressive. He doesn’t believe in servants.”

“Doesn’t believe . . . ?” Kon started as they turned the corner. 

“Head’s up!” Bart tugged Kon to one side and the next second there was a sharp thunk and an arrow protruding from a tree right where Kon’s head had been. 

Kon stared at the arrow. Somehow knowing he was probably impervious to it did not make him feel any better about the whole thing. “What the blaz--”

“Mr Kent! Bart! Oh, I’m so sorry!” Mia ran up to them. She was wearing a serviceable outdoor skirt and coat set, her hat askew over her blonde curls. Her eyes were as blue as ever, and the pink in her cheeks served only to accent the delicate hue of her skin. “My drawstring snapped -- Are you hurt? Please say you’re all right!”

“You almost hit Kon,” Bart started.

“Think nothing of it!” Kon interrupted. “It was obviously an accident -- and no harm done!” 

“Mr Kent!” Queen greeted them cheerfully. He was as spick as ever, his beard bristling happily. “Bart. So glad you could join us!” He thumped Kon’s back in a gesture of greeting that almost lost Kon his balance. “As you can see, Mia and I were just getting a spot of archery in.”

“Since they’re only wolves three nights a month, Lord Queen’s pack have become competent archers,” Bart explained. “So they can fight demons and save the world on the other nights of the month too.”

“That’s . . . admirable,” Kon said, still reeling from the back-slap. 

“Life doesn’t stop whether you have two legs or four,” Queen said. “That’s our philosophy anyway. Come inside, gentlemen, and we’ll get you some tea.”

Kon studied Mia from the corner of his eye as she strode after Queen and Bart. She was . . . interesting, that was for sure. Her pace was determined and fast -- until she collected herself, and took dainty, feminine steps. When Kon offered her his arm, she blinked at him a moment before taking it with a blush. 

“Thank you, Mr Kent.”

“Please,” Kon said gallantly. “Conner to my friends.”

“I see you share my conviction that the current practices of decorum are antiquated and perpetuate social inequalities,” Queen said with approval. “You can call me Ollie.”

He was so confident, and spoke so assuredly, Kon didn’t feel like correcting him. “But you’re a Lord!” he protested. “Is that -- all right?”

“Of course! I said so, didn’t I?”

Kon had heard that the British aristocracy was supposed to be . . . eccentric. He glanced at Bart, but his friend didn’t seem at all put out by Queen’s behavior, so he gathered this was normal. “If it’s quite all right.” He paused. “Ollie.”

“There, now, that wasn’t too hard, was it Bartholemew?”

Bart looked vaguely shocked. “I can’t call you Ollie!”

“We’ve been over the social and hieratical objections a million times --”

“You’re too tall!”

Queen laughed. “That’s the first time I’ve heard that excuse.”

“Ollie’s a one for debate,” Mia said as they followed Bart and Queen up the patio and through the french doors of a longue. “But don’t start an argument unless you’re willing to be at it for hours.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Kon said. He glanced at Mia. “So, what should I call you?”

“Mia,” she said immediately then blushed. “Um. I mean, if that’s not too forward or anything.”

Bart watched this exchange with amusement. “It’s all right, Mia. Kon’s not going to care if you use the wrong soup spoon or any of that. He doesn’t know either!”

“Thank you, Bart,” Kon said dryly, but Mia laughed seemingly relieved. 

“That’s good to hear. Ah. I hope this doesn’t sound forward, but I like you, Mr K-- Conner. I was hoping we’d be friends.”


	22. In which our heroes reenact Cinderella.

Queen’s hospitality was such that by the time he let Bart and Kon leave, it was well after dark, and they were both well fed and in good spirits -- in more than one sense. Kon watched Bart unsteadily wave down a cab with foreboding. 

“I’m not sure this is a good idea,” he said. “It’s late, we’ve had a good evening -- why don’t we head home?”

“My dear Kon,” Bart said happily. “We are young, we have money -- the night hasn’t even begun!” To the cabbie he said, “The Docks, please. A pub. Name of -- what’s the name of it, Kon?”

“The Leaky Unicorn,” Kon said. “But I still don’t think --”

“The Leaky Unicorn,” Bart said, and climbed into the cab. “You can ask the cabdriver to take you home after he drops me off, Kon.”

“That’s not what I meant.” Kon climbed into the cab reluctantly. “Anyway, Drake might not even be there.”

“But he might be! Tonight’s one of his working night’s, isn’t it?”

“But with the Foundation stuff happening, it’s very likely that he’ll be busy with something else!” Kon said. 

“All the more reason for us to find him!”

Kon could tell that it would be to no avail to argue with Bart. He sighed, resigning himself to another evening of minding Bart. While Drake hadn’t specified how long he was entrusting Bart’s care to Kon for, Kon simply did not feel right allowing Bart to roam the waterside pubs unattended.

As it happened, that wasn’t a problem.

The bar was busy and crowded as the last time Kon had visited and he steered Bart to the nearest empty table that he could find. 

“Stay put,” he told Bart. “I’ll go look for --”

“Evening sirs,” said the waitress, in rather bored tones. “What’ll it be?”

“We don’t wish to order --” Kon started.

Bart slapped down a ten pound note. “House special for myself and my friend,” he said. “And something for yourself.” He leaned in. “Would you mind doing me a favour?”

The waitress was suddenly a lot more appreciative. “What might that be?”

“A friend of ours works here, name of Roberta. If she’s on duty tonight, could you let her know we’re here?”

“She’s working in the kitchen at the moment,” said the waitress. “But I’ll send her out with yer orders.”

“Thanks a lot.” Bart raised an eyebrow at Kon. “See?”

Kon sighed. With any luck, Tim would be able to manage Bart better. 

Some hope. “Two draughts and -- oh. It’s you.” Drake balanced the tray on one arm and glared at the two of them. “You do realise that I have a job to do here?”

“Oh, I can see that,” Bart snagged his arm about Drake’s waist. “Working hard?” he asked with attempted innocence.

Drake eyed him sourly, then sat down, picking up the tankard closest Bart. “None for you, I can already see you’ve had more than enough,” he said. “So. I take it that your evening went well?”

“Very,” Kon said. “Lord Queen is a very liberal host.”

“Hm,” said Drake uncomittedly. “Bart, you know how champagne affects you.”

“It would have been impolite to refuse,” said Bart. “And Roy kept on refilling my glass and I just couldn’t say no.” His hand had gravitated to around Drake’s shoulders, and played idly with the material of what passed for a sleeve. “Isn’t that cold?”

Drake swatted Bart’s hand away. “Roy, was it? I’m not surprised.” He eyed Kon. “Where were you when Roy was refilling Bart’s glass?”

“Other side of the table. Ah,” Kon hesitated, not wishing to tell Drake that he’d been rather engrossed talking to Mia and Connor about the tribulations of growing up lycanthrope. “It was a big table and -- we gave them the scrap of the material.”

Drake, about to down his tankard paused. “You did? What did they say?”

“All of them agreed there was something wrong with the scent,” Bart said. “They were definite it didn’t belong to any were they knew in London. Queen and Connor both said they thought the scent similar to the bones.”

“Roy and Mia didn’t agree?” Drake asked sharply.

“They’d never scented the bones,” Bart explained. “So they didn’t know. They did think there were strong traces of magic in there.” He paused, studying Drake thoughtfully. “Tim?”

“Roberta when I’m working,” Drake said severly. “What is it?”

“Your bust?”

“What about it -- no that was not an invitation!” Drake removed Bart’s hands and leaned into whisper furiously. “Whatever gave you the impression that you could grope me while I’m on a job? You know the rules --”

“I thought it would be good for your cover,” Bart said guilelessly. “You know. Since I imagine you can’t let other customers touch them.”

Drake paused. 

“You’re working,” Kon said hastily. “You don’t need that kind of distraction.”

“On the other hand,” Drake said thoughtfully. “I do need some sort of explanation as to why I’ve been stand-offish when it comes to this sort of thing and a wealthy patron would be just the cover I need.” He nodded, having come to a decision. “You can grope me but you’ll have to be a tad more discreet about it -- Roberta does have standards, you know.”

Kon hadn’t planned on drinking but that last tankard was starting to look d------- attractive. “I suppose it would be too much to hope for that we could call it a night here?”

“So soon?” Drake said. “You’ve barely told me anything about the -- Bart, I hope you don’t do that to all the waitresses you meet.”

“Definite traces of magic on the cloth,” Kon interrupted quickly. “Although . . . the next part’s somewhat confusing.” 

“How so?” Drake asked, settling so that he was now sitting accross Bart’s lap. 

“Well -- all four of them described the person they thought the cloth came from completely differently. “Lord Queen said he could smell traces of perfume, Mia that the person smelled of sickness, Roy that he had been smoking and Connor that he’d spent a lot of time near the water.”

“Now that is very interesting,” Drake said, and Kon could see his mind already going to work on the information. “Very interesting indeed.”

Bart helpfully pawed his thigh. “Anything else you need investigated at present?”

“Not right now,” Drake answered. “Although . . .” He shifted slightly. “It might pay to know the limits of this disguise . . .”

“I’m going.” Kon said, slamming down the tankard. 

\---

Being woken up hours later by Bart and Drake as they returned home did not improve Kon’s mood any. He listened to them make their way upstairs, slowly and with lots of whispered giggling, and wished that his hearing wasn’t as good as it was. 

He did wonder briefly, as the door to Drake’s bedroom finally shut, if Drake was still wearing the barmaid outfit, and immediately wished he hadn’t.

\---

Typically, the first words out of Drake’s mouth the next morning were, “Sleep well?”

Kon resisted the urge to say “No, and you know why,” and instead managed a polite shrug. Halfway through his first cup of coffee he noted that they were missing someone. “Where’s Bart?”

“He went home sometime in the early hours of this morning,” Drake said. “Appearances to maintain and everything.” He shuffled the pages of The Times and glanced at Kon. “I don’t suppose you would know anything about Bart’s sudden determination to find work as a librarian?”

Kon paused. This was a new one on him. “A librarian?”

“He said something about Lord Queen telling him that he should try and find something that worked with his interests. I did manage to quell the idea by pointing out that Bart never attended University, or even school, and has absolutely no qualifications to speak of besides being an inordinate fan of gory literature. However, I wasn’t able to persuade him out of employment altogether.”

“Hm,” said Kon, aware that this might be a difficult subject. 

“Why would he want to go looking for a job?” Drake left the breakfast table to pace up and down the room. “If he were in financial difficulties I’d know, and he knows if there’s ever anything he needs he has only to ask . . . not to mention that a job poses unnecessary risks and makes it harder for us to do investigations. If we need to travel to Europe quickly to bag a ghoul, we can’t hang about while he ties things up with his employer . . . or that prolonged interaction with a group of people over a length of time is going to pose a serious challenge to keeping his condition secret, particularly if it continues to develop at the rather alarming rate that it is at the moment.” 

Drake paused before the window, looking out over the street. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Conner,” he said and his tone was grim. “But Bart’s . . . changing. You mustn’t say anything, as I don’t wish to alarm him but . . . I’m very much concerned for his well being.”

Kon swallowed, remembering only too well Bart charging him to do the same. “I don’t think that’s necessary --”

“This exceeds the effects of . . . the other night, although that is part of it. I’m talking about slight changes in his mannerisms and behavior, and even in his physical capabilities. He’s lost weight, his diet is not enough to sustain anyone in health and yet he has the energy and vigour of a man in his prime -- it’s worrying.” He glanced sharply at Kon. “Not a word to Bart.”

“Drake,” Kon started and the telephone rang. 

“Yes?” said Drake. “Miss Fite? Well, this certainly is a pleasure -- so early? Of course, we’ll be here.” He put the telephone down, raising an eyebrow at Kon. “Your ladyfriend seems to be in a great hurry to visit us this morning.”

Kon rolled his eyes. “That was positively clumsy,” he accused. “Even I could have been more subtle than that. Anita is a dear friend, I might even go as far as to say I consider her a sister -- but there is nothing more between us.”

“I see,” Drake said and Kon was spared by whatever witty observation he was poised to make by the ringing of the telephone.

“Hello -- Bart? You are? Well of course we’ll wait, but whatever for -- Bart?” Drake replaced the receiver. “Most odd.”

“What’s happened?” Kon asked. 

“He didn’t say. I don’t suppose you know of any reason why Miss Fite and Bart would both be so anxious to pay us a visit so early in the morning?” At Kon’s headshake, Drake frowned. “Then one can only suppose some dire catastrophe is at hand.” He nodded to Kon. “I hope you’ll excuse me. I need to change my jacket.”

\---

Apparently Drake preferred to meet dire catastrophe in steely grey. “It’s rather fortuitous that the other two members of this investigative party will be joining us, as I think I have determined our next strategic goal,” he said having adjusted his tie to his satisfaction. “Behold!”

Kon took The Times with misgivings. “Archdeacon Light implicated in chimneysweep scandal?”

“No, no, below that.”

“Reclusive millionaire Lord Cobblepot throws open the doors to his manor in the season’s most prestigious gala -- and also London’s most exclusive? The care and attention which the reclusive magnate is lavishing on the event is equalled only by the care that is going into the guest list -- several of London’s social elite have been passed over for virtual unknowns.” Kon looked up at Drake. “This is --”

“The opportunity we’ve been waiting for,” Drake said with satisfaction. “The Director’s search of Cobblepot’s business failed, not because Cobblepot has nothing to hide, but because we were looking in the wrong place. Whatever he’s working on, it must be at his mansion -- and this party will provide us the cover with which to investigate.”

“Ah,” said Kon uncomfortably. “About that --”

“I’ve devised a way to get us tickets,” Drake continued. “The first thing we should do is -- ah, I believe one of our visitors has arrived.”

Anita was in such impatience to tell them her news, that she didn’t even wait to remove her hat before entering the drawing room. “Kon! Have you checked the mail yet?”

“The mail?”

Anita brandished a piece of card at them. “It arrived this morning! First post!”

“Let me see that?” Drake took the card hurriedly. “This isn’t --”

“Lord Cobblepot wishes to pay his respects and humbly requests the company of Miss Anita Fite at his gala, time and location explained herein,” said Anita happily. 

“You have an invitation?”

“Check and see if you were sent one as well!”

There was a crisp envelope of marbled paper and gold ink with Kon’s name on it in the letterbox. “ To Mr Conner Kent, an invitation that we hope that you will find acceptable,” Kon read. “Just think -- we’re going to a real London Society Gala.”

“Though what precise manner of society it is can be debatated,” Drake said darkly from his corner. 

He had not received an envelope in the mail. 

Bart threw open the drawing room door energetically. “You’ll never guess --”

“You’ve received a ticket to Cobblepot’s much touted gala and have come to flaunt the fact at the rest of us?”

Bart frowned at Drake. “You’re in a fine mood this morning. For your information I received two tickets and a letter from Dent.”

“A letter?”

“Two tickets?” Drake sounded scandalised. “Why would they waste two tickets on you?”

“Dear Bartholemew,” Bart read. “It is with pleasure, etc. etc. yourself and something light to snack on -- that’s Dent’s idea of a joke -- tickets for the Gala. This goes without saying of course, but not that awful young man from the Foundation you sometimes go about with--”

“All right, all right, you’ve made your point.” Drake took the second ticket from Bart. “Well, I suppose we shall have to prepare.”

“Wait a minute, mon,” Anita protested. “Da letter said dat you were specifically not invited.”

Drake looked quellingly at her. “Then I shall just have to change that, won’t I?”

“Drake,” said Kon carefully. “I know you’re good at this sort of thing and everything, but . . . well, Roberta’s a little out of place for this kind of event --”

“I wasn’t thinking of taking Roberta,” Drake said haughtily. 

“Tim,” said Bart. “This party . . . you do realise that it’s a Ball? There will be dancing.”

For the first time in the conversation, Drake paused. “Dancing?” he repeated, and Kon almost fancied he had paled. 

Bart nodded. “Lot’s of dancing,” he said. “I’m sure Mia would love to come with me, or I could ask --”

“There is no need to involve anyone else,” Drake said firmly. “I will go to the Ball.” He nodded to the three of them, and strode out of the drawing room. 

They watched the door close behind him in silence. 

“He’s almost like Cinderella,” Anita said finally. “Except being utterly different, of course.”

“I don’t think Cinderella was ever that sarcastic,” Bart said. “Um.”

Kon bit his lip. “Would it be terribly heartless, do you think,” he said, “to laugh?”


	23. Drake *will* go to the ball!

When Drake rejoined them, Kon, Bart and Anita were pouring over the fashion pages, analysing the latest styles in anticipation of choosing their outfits. “I see we have the same idea,” he observed, fishing a measuring tape out of his jacket pocket. “Can I trouble one of you for some help?”

Since neither Anita nor Kon wanted to be anywhere near Drake’s in-seam, Bart stepped up to the task. “You haven’t done anything like this before,” he said, carefully noting down Drake’s shoulder measurements. “It’ll be very different. There’s not just dancing. There’s also holding a fan and manners and --”

“You forget I have attended Balls in the past,” Drake said commandingly. “I do know what I’m doing, Bart.” To Kon he said, “Any thoughts on where you’ll get your suit made?”

Kon shrugged. “I really don’t know any of these names,” he said. “I suppose any place is as good as another.”

“Sacrilege!” said Bart from Drake’s waist. “Not all tailors are created equal. You can come with me to Gambi’s.”

“Paul Gambi?” Drake repeated. “Is that . . . wise?”

“He is the best tailor in London.”

“Yes, but . . . well, I suppose you know what you’re doing. Miss Fite, may I accompany you to get your dress made?”

“Might as well, mon. You’re really serious about going den?”

“Bart, you’ve written down my inseam wrong. You’d better do that again.” As Bart bent to the task, Kon swallowed. Drake’s hand rested on Bart’s head and his mouth curved just slightly. It was a disquieting reflection of that night, and Kon looked away before the sight could bring back further disturbing memories. He did not wish to remember --

“Of course I’m serious. Whatever gave you the impression that I wasn’t?”

“Well, Kon and Batholemew seemed very sure dat dress in your wardrobe wasn’t yours --”

Drake blanched. “Ah . . . that dress. Well.”

“Well?” said Bart neutrally, and Kon pitied Drake. It couldn’t be easy to think on the spot like that, not with all three of them watching and Bart’s hand on his thigh. 

“They were right in assuming that the dress was not intended for me to wear,” Drake said carefully. “In fact it was not intended for my use at all. Consider it along the lines of . . . a tribute.”

Nice save, Kon thought, raising an eyebrow at Drake. 

Anita was less impressed. “Tribute?”

Bart tugged Drake’s jacket impatiently as he stood. “This isn’t working,” he said briskly, loopping the measuring tape about Drake’s waist. “I can’t take your measurements when you keep moving. Come next door and let’s fix this quickly.” Not giving Drake any chance to protest, he used the measuring tape tangled about Drake to pull him into the next room. 

Anita and Kon watched them go. 

“Bartholemew seems more assured of himself lately,” Anita observed. “I’m glad. I do think Drake is a bit of a repressive influence on him.”

“I wouldn’t call it repressive,” said Kon, thinking of the bar last night. 

“Well, whatever you call it, I do think Bartholemew would be better off with someone more like himself,” Anita finished. “Do you know if you wear a bonnet to a ball? What kind of wrap is acceptable?”

“I’ll ask Bart,” Kon said eager to avoid conversation on a topic he was trying very hard not to think about.

There was something of a flaw in his plan. 

“Bart, Anita was wondering -- that’s not measuring!” Kon yelped, hitting his head on the back of the door as he hastily stepped back. 

Drake frowned at him, displeased. “I wouldn’t say that,” he said, using the hand that was resting in Bart’s hair to tug him forward to obscure . . . Kon looked away hurriedly. “Is there a point to this interruption?”

“Ah, Anita wanted to know if she’d need a bonnet --” Kon stared at the floor, the wall, anywhere but at them. 

“I don’t think so,” said Bart, slightly muffled. “We’ll be travelling by carriage and a bonnet would just mess up her hairstyle. She’ll probably want a wrap, something warm with a hood.”

“And now could you get out of here?” Drake’s smile was wicked. “Unless, of course, you want to join us?”

Kon was only too pleased to retreat.

“Not measuring?” Anita asked. 

“You don’t want to know,” Kon said, praying that his cheeks would regain their natural colour some time soon. 

Anita eyed him and the closed door. “Dere relationship has many facets. All of them disquieting.” She gave Kon a look, evidently deciding to take pity on him. “Care to take a turn around the block?”

“That might be safest,” Kon said, leaping at the chance to escape. 

They walked around the block three times, just to be sure. 

When they returned it was to find Bart and Drake were chosing to continue as though nothing untoward had happened, and having called for a cab, were awaiting Kon and Anita’s presence to depart. 

The four of them parted ways upon reaching the shopping district, the cabbie depositing Kon and Bart on a corner before going on to take Anita and Drake to their tailor. 

Kon watched the carriage go. “Do you think they’ll be all right together?”

“We can only hope,” Bart said. “Come on. Gambi’s is this way.”

It was without challenge the most upmarket tailoring experience of Kon’s life. Gambi and his assistants stripped him of his jacket and vest, patted him all over while taking measurements, and brought out myriad swathes of fabrics and patterns and if Bart hadn’t helped advise him on colour, cut and style, he would have been lost. 

As it was, he was beginning to see how Bart might have got himself into such a predicament with his funds. Kon’s entire suit would cost almost half the roll of notes Drake had given him, but Bart ordered two vests and three shirts in addition to his tailcoat and suit.

“Shouldn’t you be watching your funds?” he asked as they bid farewell to Gambi and continued down the street. “You haven’t found a job yet.”

“Good quality clothes are an investment,” Bart said. “If I buy a shirt now when I have money, then I’m prepared against the day when I need a shirt but have no money with which to buy it.”

“Wouldn’t food be more of a priority --” Kon started, but Bart drew him into a jewellers. “What are we going in here for?”

“Cufflinks and accessories,” Bart said. “It’s the little things that really complete an outfit.”

For little things, they certainly took a big chunk out of Kon’s cash. “I don’t know how I let you talk me into this,” Kon said, as they walked home, laden with boxes. 

“Wait till you try it all on,” Bart said. “The feel of the silk against your skin, the cut of a good suit -- you feel on top of the world.”

Kon glanced at him. “You . . . really like clothes,” he said.

“Do you think so?” Bart seemed surprised at this observation.

Anita was waiting for them back at the house. 

“Tim’s not with you?” Bart asked, putting his pile of boxes on a side-table.

“I left him at da dressmakers.” Anita said. “Remind me never ever to go shopping for clothes with him again.”

Kon’s mouth twitched. “That bad?”

“Mon, you have no idea. I’m for quality as much as anyone else, but he had to have every detail specified, look at every available option . . . I had my entire outfit picked out in the time it took him to decide on what fabric he wanted.”

“That’s Tim for you,” Bart said. “He’s something of a perfectionist.” 

“More like a insufferably pedantic--” Anita started. 

Kon coughed with an urgent head-tilt in Bart’s direction. Surely Anita could be a bit more sensitive. 

She took the hint. “Perfectionist is putting it mildly,” she said with a sigh. “Still, I can’t believe we wasted an entire day shopping! I wanted to brush up on my dance moves --”

“You wanted to dance?” Bart’s smile was impish, and he moved quickly, taking Anita by the waist and spinning her around the room. “You need only have hinted,” he said as he dipped her, and Anita squealed happily. 

“Bartholemew! I’d forgotten you were so good at dis!”

Bart laughed, twirling her upright again. “Shall we?”

“Let’s! But -- are dere any places we won’t need a reservation?”

“There are if you know where to go,” Bart said, passing Anita her fan and hat. “Kon, would you care to join us?”

Kon shook his head. “I don’t know how you two have the energy,” he said. “I’ll pass.” 

In truth, seeing Bart so dashing and sure of himself was somewhat disconcerting. He was . . . not only masculine, he was good at being a man. 

And it was all the more disconcerting for the fact that Kon could remember very clearly how it had felt to dance with Beth. 

Kon had not managed to settle his confusion by the time Drake arrived back. 

“A very satisfactory expedition,” he said, putting a pile of boxes even larger than Bart’s on the drawing room table. “Where’s Bart?”

“Out tripping the light fantastic,” Kon said, flipping through The Wild Dog: An examination of the wilder members of the canine family, including wolves, feral dogs and prehistoric species. “Apparently he and Anita were too impatient to wait until tomorrow to practice their dance moves.”

Drake’s expression darkened. “Is that so?”

Kon protested as Drake tugged The Wild Dog out of his hands. “I was reading that --”

“You can read it later,” Drake said. “For the present, I require your services, Conner.” He pulled Kon out of the armchair. “You will dance with me.”

“All right,” said Kon as Drake pushed him into the starting position. “But only because you asked so nicely.”

Kon thought that Drake stepped on his foot the first time in retaliation for that comment, but the fifth or sixth it occurred, he was beginning to suspect otherwise. “You’re . . . not very good at this, are you?”

“I’ve never seen fit to occupy myself with so trivial a pastime,” said Drake, haughtily. “With practice, I’m sure I’ll be as skilled as anyone else.”

“With lots of practice,” said Kon. “Ow.”

“I meant to do that.”

Kon endured a few minutes more of this before speaking. “This isn’t supposed to be this difficult. Dancing is a popular pastime. You should enjoy it.”

“I would enjoy it just fine if I could remember what to do with my feet --”

Kon sighed. “You’re thinking too much about your feet. Look, it’s not science. It would help if we had music, but you have to feel the rythmn. Move with me, Drake.” He never thought he’d be saying that. 

They continued at this until Drake had the basic footwork mastered. “I think I’m getting the hang of this,” he said.

“You still need to work on relaxing,” Kon said. “This isn’t going to kill you, you know.”

“Considering who’s throwing this Ball?” Drake raised an eyebrow. “It might.” He trod on Kon’s foot. “Sorry.”

“Think nothing of it.” Kon shifted his foot and they began again. Kon steered Drake around the drawing room, and wondered if he shouldn’t perhaps be taking his own advice. His arms were stiff and his posture tense -- then again, no one could fault him for some reserve. It was Drake who had one arm on Kon’s shoulder, one at his waist, Drake who was a mere arm’s length away from him. 

Despite everything, Drake was still such a very private and restrained individual. Kon had seldom been so close to him, certainly not for so extended a length of time, and it was hard not to notice things. For instance, Drake’s eyes were, this close, an almost gray blue, and his forehead furrowed as he concentrated. How, for all that his grasp on Kon was tight and in charge, his footwork was hesitant and his manner uncertain. 

To Kon, who had always believed that nothing beyond the most dire of catastrophes or Bart could produce uncertainty in Drake, this was something of a revelation. “You’re doing well,” he said as they completed a set with almost no mistakes. “Maybe this time, you’d like to let me lead?”


	24. Dancing Practice

Impervious to bullets or not, Kon’s feet ached by the time Drake let him go to bed. 

He was not entirely impressed, therefore, to come downstairs to breakfast the next morning to find workmen unloading a gramaphone from the Foundation in the living room, along with several manuals devoted to the latest dance styles. 

“Good morning, Conner,” Drake greeted him. “I trust you’re refreshed and ready to start anew this morning?”

“You’d think if the Foundation could send a gramaphone, they could send you a dance instructor,” Kon said, eying the gramaphone with distrust. 

“They’re understaffed at present,” Drake said, pushing across the morning newspaper. “You’ll see why.”

Kon looked at the headlines. “Underground trade in cadavers suspected after hospital morgue loses 20 corspes. Wave of grave robberies in South London. Medical students deny involvement; Police Baffled.” He paused. “Well. Somebody’s making a lot of zhombies.”

“We think we know who,” Drake said dryly. “Since I am the only one of the Foundation members with access to a ticket, it has been decided that I shall represent the Foundation in this matter while they concentrate on the cadavers. To the end, I will do anything I can to ensure that my disguise passes without a hitch. I hope you know how to two-step, Conner.”

Kon winced. “Why don’t you ask Bart for help?” he suggested. “He must have far more experience than I do, not to mention that he is used to taking the female part. I’m sure --”

Drake looked at him coolly. “That will not be necessary. You will say nothing of this to Bart.”

Exposure to Drake did not make him any less insufferable. “If you insist.” 

“Excellent. I’m going to change. Come into the drawing room once you’ve finished breakfast. Half an hour should do.”

Drake had everything so planned out, Kon was surprised he even bothered asking. 

As revenge, he waited precisely thirty-five minutes before joining Drake in the drawing room. “I must say, I’m going to miss Mrs Mac -- I do beg your pardon!” Kon hastily turned towards the door. “I had no idea you hadn’t finished dressing. I’m very sorry --”

“What are you talking about?” Drake sounded irritated. “I have finished dressing.”

“But your -- ah -- petticoat --”

“Well, naturally Conner. My dress isn’t finished yet, is it? I only ordered it yesterday. Come over here and let’s dance.”

“In your underthings?”

“I’m wearing a jacket and a tie, Conner. I hardly believe these can be classed as ‘under things.’ Look, I think it would benefit me to get used to dancing in skirts and feminine footwear before the night of the Ball, that’s all. Stop acting as though I’m going to take shameless advantage of you.”

“I was happier before you said that.” Kon gathered his courage and took Drake’s hand. “Two-step, yes?”

“To start.”

Kon was profoundly grateful when Drake decided they had practiced enough, and went to put some trousers on -- by some amazing instinct, exactly two minutes before Bart arrived to take Kon to the tailor’s. Kon pondered this as they walked to Gambi’s. 

“You’re sure Drake is human?”

“As much as one can be certain under the circumstances,” Bart replied. “What odd questions you ask, Kon.”

He thought about telling Bart about the dance practice, the conversation the previous morning where Drake had confided his worries about Bart’s condition to Kon and the rather alarming petticoat, but something held him back. So he said nothing as Gambi and his assistants hung pieces of cloth on Kon, accidentally stabbed him a couple of times with pins, and listened to Bart list all the ways in which cotton was superior to linen. 

“You’re awfully quiet,” Bart said on the walk back. “Is something wrong?”

Kon shook his head. The day was gray and cool, with low cloud shading the cityscape in melancholy. It seemed that with it, a strange sort of sorrow had settled over him. “I’m just . . . I have a lot to think about.”

Bart glanced at him side-long and Kon had a sudden insight into why Drake might have bought the dress. No one would give them a second look if he’d walked down the street, his arm around Beth, but if he drew Bart close now --

Bart rested his hand on Kon’s shoulder a moment sympathetically before drawing away. His silence was understanding, and Kon wondered just what he thought. “I expect Tim will be wondering where we are.”

Mrs Mac greeted them both cheerfully as they returned. “Timothy’s in the study, working on something. He says he’s not to be disturbed, but I’ve laid out afternoon tea in the drawing room.”

“Thank you, Mrs Mac!” Bart cheerfully led the way into the drawing room. “I hope it’s scones -- oh! Gramaphone!”

“It arrived this morning from the Foundation,” Kon said, helping himself to a slice of seed cake. 

“So unfair,” Bart said, flicking through the pile of recordings. “Tim never let me have a gramaphone.” He selected a recording and carefully placed it on the needle. “He said he would never get any work done with me making noise all the time.” He turned up the volume on a merry dance tune. “Oh, this one’s my favourite.”

“He has it for work,” Kon said. “The Foundation has him studying all the latest dances.”

“I do like irony,” Bart said shuffling through the recordings. “Especially when it applies to --” He paused as somewhere in the house a door shut. 

“Something wrong?” 

“Oh, no. Nothing at all.” Bart removed the recording and put it back with the others, and the very bottom of the pile. “I’m going out now,” he said. “I have some appointments to take care of.”

“Continuing your job hunt?”

Bart nodded. “I don’t think that being a librarian will work out,” he said. “So I’m going to try as an artist’s model.”

“An artist’s model?”

“I like art,” Bart explained. “And I like pretending. I’m not sure I’ll be very good at staying still for a long time, but I can try.”

Kon nodded. “Good luck with that.”

“Thank you. I’ll be back at dinner to tell you how it goes.”

Some time later, just enough time that Kon wouldn’t connect it to Bart’s leaving, Drake emerged from the study. 

“I say,” he said carelessly, flipping through the recordings and selecting the one that Bart had played. “I don’t suppose you’d know the steps to this one?”

Kon raised an eyebrow at him. 

“Marked improvement,” Drake told him. “You’re getting passably good at that. Not quite there yet, of course.” 

“Wouldn’t it have been easier just to ask Bart his favourite tune?”

“I do not know what you’re getting at, Conner. Well, come on. I’m waiting.”

\---

Bart turned up for dinner happy and smelling vaguely of turpentine. 

“It went well then?” Kon asked him, untidying Bart’s hair. 

“I got a job on my first day! And a nice artist too, a man who was very interested by how much time I’d spend in France.” Bart shook himself free of Kon’s fingers, and continued to pile food onto his plate. “He says it’s all right that I don’t have experience as a model, in fact he prefers them inexperienced and he was very kind in making sure I was comfortable,” Bart paused only long enough for a mouthful of mashed potato. “And I get paid a lot more than what I was expecting, but it was colder too so I guess it evens out.”

Kon, about to congratulate Bart, paused. He had a horrible premonition. 

He was not alone. 

Drake put down his fork. “Tell me you’re not posing nude.”

Bart frowned at him. “That is typical,” he accused. “No, I’m not posing nude.”

Kon relaxed. “That’s g--”

“I have a sheet.”

If Kon were quick he could grab Bart and shove him down the hall so that he could get a running start while Kon held the door. He tensed, ready to act at the first hint of certain doom, but after a moment, Drake smiled tightly and picked up his fork again. “My mistake,” he said. “Tell me, Bart. This artist . . . have you seen any of his work?”

“Not yet,” Bart said. “He said he wants me to be natural and thinks that if I saw his work I might be influenced.” Bart returned to his dinner. “Art is complicated,” he said. “May I have some more gravy?”

Kon was not alotgether surprised when Drake excused himself after dinner. “I have to make some . . . phonecalls,” he said. “If you don’t mind, Bart, I’d like to . . . visit this artist of yours. Might I accompany you to his studio tomorrow?”

Bart grinned and gave his consent. 

“Tim’s taking this a lot better than I expected,” he said, as he followed Kon into the drawing room. “I really thought he’d go into one of his moods and try to forbid me from working at all. But he’s showing interest and everything!”

Kon wasn’t sure that the sort of interest that Drake was showing in Bart’s employer was at all the kind Bart might want, but said nothing. He continued to say nothing as Bart turned on the gramaphone, and the song that Drake and he had been practicing to earlier started playing. 

“Ah,” said Bart happily. “Want to dance?”

“I would rather throw myself in front of an omnibus.”

“Please?”

Bart was definitely nicer to dance with -- and infinitely easier on Kon’s feet. He moved fluidly and gracefully, light in Kon’s arms and soft where their bodies brushed. It was much more natural than dancing with Drake had been, despite the lack of petticoats or anything feminine in Bart’s manner, and Kon drew him close without reflection. 

“I’ve missed this,” Bart said, resting against Kon. “And not just because you’re a good dancer.”

“I am?” Kon said surprised. He’d not really thought about it. He knew he wasn’t bad, of course, being in some demand amongst his mainly female friends at the University had ensured that. But neither did he have Bart or Anita’s enthusiasm for it. Even with all the practice Drake had inadvertently given him, Kon didn’t consider himself deserving of Bart’s praise. 

“You guide, rather than lead,” Bart said. “And you have terribly nice hands.”

Kon ducked his head in embarrassment. “Bart--”

“You did ask.” Bart deftly stole control of the dance, leading Kon through a complicated skip, twirl, bow or curtsey and loop variation. “Whereas you favour the New World style of dancing, in London, the European fashion is generally the rule,” Bart said as they settled back into the usual pattern of steps. “You might want to keep that in mind when you’re teaching Tim the flourishes.”

“I’m not quite sure he’s up to -“ Kon paused. “When did you . . . ?”

“Just now, although I had my suspicions.” Bart was triumphant.

Kon was not impressed. “The two of you are your own private game of intrigue. At least I suppose that you can take over teaching Drake now--”

“Oh no.” Bart looked horrified. “I couldn’t.” 

"Because that would be too simple?"

Bart looked at him. 

Kon sighed. "You'd better show me how they go."

As the music turned to a much slower set, Bart finished talking Kon through the steps, and settled against him. “This style of dance would be much more suited to Tim. If you could persuade him to practice it, to stick to the slower dances they play so people can rest between sets, I think that would be much more preferable.”

“You expect me to persuade Drake of anything?”

“I don’t think there’s anyone outside of the Foundation that he would have trusted with this, Kon,” Bart said seriously. “He’s not good at showing it, but he values your company -- as do I.”

Given the rather particular way in which Bart seemed to enjoy his company, Kon wasn’t sure whether that was a good thing or not. “But you’ve known him longer, and you’re more skilled. I see no reason that he could not simply --”

“Pride.”

Naturally. “How stupid of me to overlook that.” Kon shifted Bart’s weight slightly so that he could look him in the face. “Even so --”

“He’s doing this for me,” Bart said with certainty. “He can’t very well ask my help for that, can he?”

Kon nodded slowly. “You may have a point,” he said as the music finished, holding Bart about the waist even as the gramaphone ran silent. “About a lot of things.”

Bart’s eyes widened as he was prevented from bowing to his partner as was the custom. He opened his mouth to speak, but hesitated.

Kon smiled, gently touching Bart’s cheek and savouring the way Bart’s attention was focused totally on him. He rather fancied Bart had forgotten to even breathe. “An example,” he said, and bent his lips to Bart’s. 

What remained of the sadness of the gray day was lost in the kiss. Simple warmth with the possibility of something more and Kon couldn’t determine when one kiss became two, when two became five --

Bart pulled back suddenly. Kon turned to look with him towards the doorway -- empty. 

Kon bit his lip. Had they been . . . ? But the house was so still --

“You asked me to teach you the two-step?” Bart said, voice pitched just a little louder than was necessary. “Like this.”


	25. And so it goes.

The few days remaining before the ball were a seemingly endless whirl of fittings, music and preparations, punctuated by more reports in the newspapers of graves dug up and bodies gone. Kon heard the sharp ring of the telephone almost as often as he heard the strains of the day’s popular tunes on the gramaphone. 

“Foundation business,” Drake said, impatient at being disturbed. “Do you have to ask questions all the time?”

“Of course he won’t tell,” Bart said. “But that’s all right. More toast for us.” He stuffed a half piece of toast in his mouth, unfolding the paper he was reading to examine the gory front page artist impression with relish. “Why do people always think the undead run around in their undergarments? I mean, vampyres, maybe but you don’t bury people in their underclothes . . . and realistic decay? I think not.”

Kon choked. “Do we really need to discuss this over breakfast?”

“Are you squeamish, Kon? Does the thought of corpses, bloated and decaying and feasted upon by maggots and worms put you off your breakfast?”

“It does now.” Kon put his piece of toast down in disgust. “Thank you, Bart.”

“If you’re not going to finish that --”

“No.”

Breakfast was done with, and Bart and Kon heading out for their next fitting when Drake rejoined them. “I say, Conner, you couldn’t do me a favour could you? I have some papers I need delivered in Soho --”

“I could take them,” Bart offered.

“You’re working,” Drake reminded him, smile pleasant in the extreme. “Conner, may I count on you?”

As far as Drake’s requests went, this one was harmless. “I don’t see why not,” Kon said. 

“Excellent,” Drake waved him into the study. “Here they are,” he said, passing Kon a loosely wrapped bundle. “The address is on the front. Oh, and Conner?”

Kon paused, almost at the door. “Yes?”

“I would be much obliged,” Drake said. “If you could break something.”

“. . . ah,” said Kon. “I’d better catch Bart up.”

The number of fittings they were having for their suits seemed extreme, but given the amount it was costing them, it had damn well fit properly. Kon’s suit had progressed to the point where he could afford to let his mind wander without fear of a wayward pin pulling him back to earth. 

The tailor’s reflected the pricieness of the suits, all mahogany and velvet and frosted glass. It spoke of class, but there was something about its deliberately old-fashioned style that tugged at Kon’s memory. The place seemed like nothing so much as an extension of its owner and watching Gambi give instructions to his staff, measuring tape strung over his shoulders and pins tucked neatly in his waistcoat pocket, his suit well made but several decades out of style, Kon had a suspicion. 

“Mr Gambi ... he belongs to the club, does he not?”

“We don’t talk about the club,” Bart said severely. “Not in public.” 

Not until they had completed their fitting and were several blocks away did he bring up the subject again. 

“I’ve never seen him there,” Bart said. “But Gambi’s name’s on the books and they say ...”

“They say ... ?”

“You’ll laugh,” Bart said. “Tim did.”

“Try me.”

Bart seemed skeptical, but he continued the story anyway. “He’s cursed. Or at least, that’s the story. See, back when he was young, just getting a reputation for tailoring, he boasted that he could make a suit for for a Lord and a Duke took him up on it -- it was a wager, Gambi’s store against the price of the suit, but the Duke cheated . . . some think Gambi dabbled in sorcery, some that he made a dark promise with something shadowy and not entirely trustworthy, others than in the making of the suit, he poured his heart and soul into it . . . Anyway, despite the Duke’s every changing specifications and delays, Gambi delivered the suit as charged and when the Duke put it on, anyone could see at once it was the best suit he’d ever worn. The Duke acknowledged he’d lost the wager, paid Gambi in full. Gambi had enough to cover his debts and buy a bigger store, and with the Duke known to be among his clientale, he prospered.”

“That doesn’t fit my understanding of cursed,” Kon pointed out. 

“I haven’t got up to that part. See, the Duke wore the suit for the first time at a Ball a few weeks later, and all eyes were on him as he danced and drank and made merry. He was a dashing figure in his suit and everyone agreed he was the most handsome man present. Friends were surprised as the Duke, usually a sarcastic kind of person, joined in the festivities whole heartedly. He stayed until the final toast, and was the last to leave. The Duke had rode over by himself, and he took the reins of his horse, bid his host farewell, and was never seen alive again.”

Bart really got into his stories. Kon bit his tongue, preventing himself from suggesting that Bart’s next career be as a penny dreadful novelist. “He disappeared?”

“Died. They found his body the next day, miles from his usual route home. The horse was with him, also dead. Apparently, in high spirits from the Ball, he’d decided to take chances, riding breakneck through the woods, and misjudged the terrain . . . really out of character for him, all his friends agreed. He was a grasping, calculating type usually . . . but the coroner ruled accidental death, and arrangements were made for his burial. Strangely enough, though the Duke had obviously been thrown from his horse, and though his path had taken him through wood, briar and brambles, there was not a mark on the suit.”

“Now that’s a good tailor.”

“You might want to hear the rest of it,” Bart said, leading Kon onto the omnibus that would take the two of them to Soho. “See, they discovered there was something odd when they went to take the suit off. They couldn’t.”

“Sometimes,” Kon suggested delicately. “Bodies change shape with the onset of --”

“It wasn’t that,” Bart said. “Wasn’t rigor mortis. Two please,” he said brightly to the ticket collector. Taking a seat by the window, he waited for Kon before continuing the story. “They could not unbutton the suit and cutting it didn’t produce any impact on the fabric. So they buried him in it, and then some time later, people reported seeing the Duke’s body at nights, roaming the village lanes, the woods --”

“A ghost?” Kon said. 

“No,” Bart said eagerly. “This is the really interesting bit. All the witnesses agreed that the body was obviously dead -- in later reports it was little more than a skeleton. The suit itself was alive.”

“You’re right,” Kon said. “That is interesting.”

“People talked,” Bart said. “Rumour got around. Gambi found it convenient to leave for new parts and here he is.”

“That explains Drake’s reaction to him,” Kon said reflectively. “But not why he wears such old fashioned suits when his business is fashion.”

“Oh, he always wears that suit,” Bart said carelessly. “Here’s our stop.”

It was Kon’s first visit to Soho, that area of London known equally well for its population of artists as for its proliference of seedy bars and women of loose repute. He and Bart conferred over their respective destinations, and decided that since they lay more or less upon the same route, Kon would accompany Bart to his artists before continuing on to make Drake’s delivery. 

Kon was rather glad that Bart had accepted this arrangement. He was still rather concerned about the little he’d heard of the artist, and Drake did not seem to have taken any steps towards settling the matter, although he had been on the telephone a great deal. 

From the moment he viewed the french name attached to the rather dowdy looking studio flat, Kon had a bad feeling about the visit. 

“Yes,” said Bart. “Try not to laugh. Deisinger’s . . . um. But he’s a proper artist.”

“I’m sure,” Kon said, eying their surroundings skeptically. He wasn’t acquainted with a great many artists, but the studio he was in spoke more of artist affectation than any skill or merit therein, and Kon was inclined to look down upon Deisinger without even having made his acquaintance. 

He was not disappointed. Deisinger turned out to be a pallid individual with a air of set upon genius, and weary indifference to the materialistic world. In just saying ‘how do you do’ he managed to annoy Kon. 

“Bien, bien,” Deisigner said with a world-weary sigh. “How cruelly this world treats its artists.”

“Didn’t you say that your friends get you into the theatre every night?” 

“That’s neither here nor there,” Deisinger said with wounded dignity. “Daylight’s wasting, you’d better get changed.”

Bart gave Kon a quick, private grin and disappeared into a side-room. Kon didn’t return the smile. The more he saw of Bart’s job, the less he liked the look of it. 

“An American?” Deisinger said, setting up easel and paints though Kon noticed that he made no attempt to ready his canvas. “A tourist? I don’t suppose I could interest you in a souvenir paiting to take home with you? I also do portraits?”

“Really?” Kon said, taking Deisinger’s words as an invitation to turn over the canvases lent face toward against the wall. 

“Oh, you don’t want to look at those,” Deisinger said, hastily returning them to their places. “All unfinished, and quite rough. What you want to -“

“Et tu, Brute?”

Kon snorted as Bart swung himself around the doorway over dramatically, wearing the sheet toga style. “Very droll,” he said, although the fact that Bart was mostly covered did much to reassure him. 

Deisinger, however, was not impressed. “No, no, no - what do you think you’re doing?” 

Watching Desinger order Bart out and arrange the sheet gave Kon a very hard feeling at the back of his eyes. It wasn’t just that he was taking advantage of Bart’s trusting nature. It was the way he treated Bart so neglibly in the process. Sharp and bullying, he impressed with sheer volume and scorn. It was easy to see how he’d got influence over Bart, and just as easy to see that the thing had to be ended. Bart was trying hard to concentrate and all he got for it was one complaint after the other ... 

The cracking noise was startlingly close. Kon looked down to see the back of the chair he was resting his hand on was fully snapped in half. He opened his fingers, and wood fragments and splinters dusted to the floor. 

Deisinger and Bart were staring at him. Kon did his best to shrug nonchalantly. “I guess the chair’s broken.”

Deisinger threw up his hands angrily. “That’s it! I’ve had all the distractions I can take! Both of you, out!”

“Sorry,” Kon said, as Bart pulled on his jacket as they beat a hasty retreat down the road. “I didn’t mean to break it.”

“I hope he’s not going to fire me,” Bart said. “Compared to the other jobs open to someone of my level of education, this one’s by far the best.”

Being bossed about while in a state of undress and a chilly flat by a man of dubious artistic merit and morals was not Kon’s idea of a good job, but as he opened his mouth to say this, be caught sight of Bart’s expression and sighed. Clearly, Bart thought it was. “The situation’s that difficult then?”

“Talk to Mia. She used to work in a factory before she got lycanthropy and now she works for Ollie. Let me see the address of your delivery?” 

Kon obediently handed the paper over and had the surprise of seeing Bart frown. “You know it?”

“Quite well in fact.” Bart redirected his frown at the parcel Kon still held. “What is Tim thinking?”

There was no answer to Bart’s knock. 

“I suppose we should give the parcel to the landlady,” Kon said dubiously. She had greeted them with cold distrust and not even bothered giving them directions to their destination. Bart took this for granted, but Kon found such obvious apathy towards guests of her boarders disconcerting. The interior of the place was equally neglected, and in the course of traversing the corridor, they had to navigate around a broken light fixture, propped against the wall, and a gaping hole in the floor. 

“No need for that,” Bart said, comfortably swinging himself out the hall window.

“Bart!” Kon ran to the window, but Bart was already out of reach, inching along the ledge towards a window. “What are you doing? You could fall --”

“Please, Kon,” Bart said, concentrating as he carefully slid himself down the side of the building to the level of the window. “Tim would never let me hear the end of it if I fell off a building.”

Palpable as Tim’s displeasure was, Kon was not sure it would hold up against, say, gravity. “Bart. Someone’s going to see you -- I don’t even know why you decided to just break in --”

“It’s not breaking in,” Bart said, sliding the pane of glass up. “Can’t be since we’re not here to take anything. In fact we’re even leaving something.” 

“That’s not the point. The point is --”

Bart didn’t wait for Kon to finish his sentence, slipping through the open window pane with ease. “You act like I’ve never done this before,” he said and disappeared from Kon’s sight. 

“Bart!” 

No response.

Kon sighed, and waited for Bart to open the door.


	26. Let's hope I remember how to do this.

This wasn't the first time that Drake and Bart had put Kon up to breaking and entering, and Kon had the suspicion that it would not be the last. As Bart ushered him into the dingy apartment, Kon consoled himself with the thought that were they discovered, no one in their right minds would take them for burglars - the apartment was littered and untidy, the furniture broken and in poor condition. It was hard imagining finding anything of value in a place so squalid. 

Despite Bart's obvious familiarity with the apartment, Kon had misgivings. "You're sure this is the right place?" he asked.

"Very sure," Bart assured him, shutting the door behind them. 

Kon put the package down on the table, steadying it as it tipped in response - one leg was shorter than the other three, propped up by a pile of folded newspaper, and another had at some point in its history, been snapped in two and was now crudely held together with bandages and glue. "Why did you shut the door?" he asked. "We're not staying."

"I want to see what's in the package," Bart said, snagging it before Kon could argue. "Aren't you curious?"

Maybe a little. "I don't see it's any of our business," Kon said reaching around the table to try and regain the package.

"Foundation business is always our business," Bart said, merrily dodging out of the way, keeping the table in between them. "I mean," he said, turning to face Kon, his back to the open doorway behind him that in all probability led to a bedroom or the like, "People like us - we are the Foundation's business. So it's only smart too take an interest in what they do. You never kno--!""

Kon saw the shadows in the doorway gather, but wasn't fast enough to warn Bart. "Bart--!"

Bart froze. 

Which given the circumstances was a pretty fair reaction. The circumstances being the hand gripping Bart's hair painfully tight and the broken bottle held at his throat. 

The table was still between Kon and Bart and his assailant, and Kon couldn't make out anything of the man in the shadows but his outline. He couldn't let him hurt Bart but without being able to see the guy's face, work out what he was going to do -

The man growled, the sound low and inhuman. 

Kon swallowed. Yeah, that was a pretty fair indicator of his mood. 

"Hey," Bart said, his voice somewhat strained. "Roy. Got a package for you." He held the parcel up. 

That was Roy? Kon stared at the shadowy figure, trying and failing to see any similarity between it and the dapper American who'd driven them to Queen's residence. Not until Roy took the package with another low growl, pushing Bart none too gently to one side as he did, did the shadows lift and Kon viewed him properly. 

He was a wreck. No other words came close to describing the absolute decline in which Roy appeared. His only garment was a pair of trousers, ripped and stained and his hair was matted and untidy. Roy's face was hollow with lack of sleep and there were dark shadows under his eyes. His frame appeared thin and mean, and as he made another growling sound low in his throat, Kon could easily believe him more beast than man. 

"Coffee."

"Sure, Roy." Bart scrambled to his feet, making for the cupboard beside the sink and the sorry looking kettle. 

Kon put himself between Bart and Roy, watching him carefully for any sign of intended violence. "What in the name of -"

"Kon," said Bart carefully. "Don't."

It was a long wait for the kettle to boil. Roy sprawled in one of the rickety chairs and unwrapped the parcel, breaking the string with a nail rather than undoing it. He grunted as the contents of the package was revealed to be sandwiches wrapped in brown paper, stuffing one in his mouth. 

"Sandwiches," Kon said, frowning. This was the important errand Drake had sent them on? 

Bart stepped on his foot, sliding the coffee accross the table to Roy. "There," he said, carefully. "Your coffee, Roy."

Roy grunted in response, taking the cup and another two sandwiches and disappearing into the back room. There was a couple of thumps of wardrobe doors being banged and other furniture. 

Kon looked at Bart wondering what possible explanation he could give for the abrupt transformation of dapper man about time to illustration for a pamphlet on the evils of drink. "Not a morning person?"

"It's the were thing," Bart said with surprising seriousness. "They -- Roy doesn't take -- coming out of it is hard if you're not born to it."

"Not born to it?" Kon said surprised.

"The foundation says the lycanthropy's a communicable disease." Bart pulled himself up on to sit on the bench, and drummed his heels against the back of the cupboard door gloomily. "But it's a blood curse, that's what it is. It's weakens you most when it's new -- same with vampyres. That's why a newly turned vampyre isn't as strong as one that's sired others, 'cept weres that doesn't matter. It gets easier with time, but Roy was taken late. He'll never have the kind of control Lord Queen does. Mia either."

It was strange to Bart both so knowledgeable and so serious. Kon leaned against the bench beside him, in sympathy to his companion's thoughts. "If it's a disease," he said slowly, his gaze returning to the dingy room. "Then there is the possibility of treatment ... ?"

"The Foundation ... did research in that area. There's ... a tonic to lessen the severity of the change, to enable the baser instincts of the animal to be held in check by the mind of the man," Bart said. "But it's not ... the Foundation puts too much importance on reason. They don't understand about blood."

Blood. 

The way Bart said that word --

Kon resisted the impulse to shiver.

"So," he said, pressing on quickly. "What is there to understand? I mean, Davidson's speculations that the symbolic associations of blood with life as well as death contributes to its importance in ritual --"

"Kon," said Bart with some amusement. "You can be such a scholar sometimes." He patted Kon's shoulder fondly, but his tone turned serious as he continued. "Blood's the centre of all the strongest curses. It's not something you can undo --"

The bedroom door banged open again and Roy emerged, wearing a clean trousers and doing up the buttons of his shirt, tie around his shoulders. 

"Bart," he started angrily. "You little idiot -- what did you think you were doing?"

"Bringing you your package," Bart said with dignity. "Since when is that --"

"I could have hurt you, Bart. I could have -- god." Roy grabbed a cracked pitcher of cold water sitting in the sink and upended it over himself. Ablutations complete, he shook his head to rid himself of the excess water, then grapped a faded looking towel to deal with the rest. "Now I'm properly awake. Let's start over -- what on earth were you doing, barging into my flat after a change?"

"I've done it before," Bart said hotly. "And potato peeling. Just -- yes, you have it. Should have checked the jug first, huh."

Roy flicked the peeling back in the sink. "Before's different," he said. "And I seem to remember telling you it was a bad idea even then." He nodded to Kon, his first acknowledgement of his presence. "Sorry. I guess you could say you caught me at a bad time."

"So I gathered," Kon said. "We're sorry for the intrusion."

"No harm done," Roy said, making short work of another sandwich. "And I got to say these really fit the bill."

He was packing the sandwiches away with scarcely enough time to exhale. Kon had a worrying suspicion, but it was Bart who asked. 

"Ye gods," he said. "Roy. When was the last time you ate?"

The American shrugged. "'fore Mia went missin,'" he said around a mouthful of bread and ham. "Usually, at's when I stock up buh worried ... no time."

"So you've been here the last three days -- and you know how much the change takes out of you --"

"What was I to do? Couldn't chance leaving -- what if I collapsed and some kind soul took me to a hospital or something? The carnage --"

Didn't bear thinking about. 

"Bart and I have some time," Kon said. "We could probably do some grocery shopping for you before we head back to Drake's."

"You'd do that?" Roy paused reflectively. "Can't say I wouldn't appreciate it -- let me get you a fiver." He fished around in his pockets for the note. "Back to Drake's you said? The sandwiches wouldn't happen to be from --"

"Tim," Bart said. "I'm sorry, Roy."

Roy shook his head. "Can't say I expected any different," he said handing over the money. "He learned from the best, after all."

His tone as he said that was unusually bitter. 

"Learned from the best -- that wasn't a compliment, was it?" Kon asked Bart as the two of them inspected the local grocery. 

"You'd need to meet the Director to understand," Bart said. "He's -- there's no one like him. No one more dedicated, more skilled at playing the political game, pulling all the different pieces of the Foundation together ... but he's just as wrong as we are. Human, maybe, but with none of the feeling that makes you human."

"Harsh words," said Kon, surprised. 

"He's a harsh man," Bart said darkly. "And Roy -- well, no one can really blame them for their actions. But all the same -- I wish it had been different."

"Should I ask?" Kon said, adding corned beef to their basket. "I don't want to pry but I am curious."

"Why not?" Bart shrugged. "You should have an idea what you're getting into." But he didn't say anything more on the subject until they'd paid for the groceries and were walking back towards Roy's battered apartment. 

"There's really no nice way to put it," Bart said sadly, eventually. "Back in the day, Roy and Grayson and Miss Gordon -- the three of them were fast friends. You'd have said no one could be closer. They knew about Roy's condition, of course, and they believed they could overcome it. They -- looking back, it's almost like they were different people. It's funny -- Miss Gordon, for all she's lost, is the one that's the most unchanged. Roy on the other hand --"

"This is the incident everyone refers to, isn't it?" Kon said. 

"It was accident," Bart said. "No one contests that. Roy was caught out without the potion once, moon rose, so did the wolf. They brought him down before he killed anyone, but Miss Gordon was injured in the process."

Kon remembered the elaborate contraption of wheels and tracks in the library. "So she's crippled, Roy blames himself and Grayson --"

"Blames Roy," said Bart softly. "And himself for ever trusting him. It was what the Director said would happen all along -- he and Queen have not exchanged a civil word since."

"You're telling me they exchanged civil words beforehand?" Kon asked.

Bart's mouth quirked into a small smile. "You're ruining my story."

"My apologies," Kon returned, quietly pleased with himself -- it was clear that Bart's thoughts followed the obvious parallel between Grayson's situation and Drake's, and even the small flicker of amusement on Bart's face was a relief to Kon. Casting about for a lighter diversion, he spotted an omnibus just pulling away from the road up in front of them, leaving a single passenger tottering on the pavement in a smoke grey frock. "One moment," he told Bart, handing him the grocery bags and hastening to her side. 

"Excuse me," he said, laying a hand on her arm, and guiding her away from the road's edge. "Can I be of assistance ... ?"

"Kon," said Mia, and her eyes were more brilliantly blue than ever against her taut, white face. "You have excellent timing." And without further ado, she fainted into his arms.


	27. Kon thinks he is so smooth...

London presented a solidly grey front as Kon and Bart walked to their respective homes, their collars up against the damp. The concrete was dark and slick, while the sky was a more marbled shade. The rain, by now so usual that Kon only noticed it as part of the scenery, drowned out the sounds of the others on the roads, leaving horse and cabs and the odd motor vehicle to loam unexpectedly out of the cloud. It was dreary, dingy and grey -- the weather had not been this bad since Kon had first arrived in London. 

He couldn't have been happier. 

Bart too seemed to be enjoying himself. "Oh -- Mr Kent! I fear I am becoming faint! Do not worry, my dear -- I have handled many unconscious women on occasion."

"That's not what I said," Kon said, too pleased with himself to try and sound reproving.

"What did you say?"

"That is between Miss Dearden and myself."

"And she's Miss Dearden now?" Bart ducked ahead of Kon to plant himself in the middle of the path, and frowned up at him. "Forgive me if I'm missing something, but aren't you going about this back to front?"

"It sounds," Kon said smugly. "As if you're put out that you weren't the one to catch her."

"If I'm put out," Bart said. "It's because I've known Mia as long as anyone, and you had your arm around her before I even knew she was there."

"Like I said at the time," Kon replied loftily. "I have an instinct for these things." It was ungentlemanly of him perhaps to dwell on the matter, or indeed to take any comfort from Mia's obvious distress but all the same ... given Drake's games and Bart's confusions, it was comforting to have found the one thing in London that he knew how to deal with. 

And if that one thing happened to be a very pretty blonde, so much the better. 

"I expect you couldn't walk down a street in the United States without some woman or other falling over you."

"It did happen once or twice." There was one thing troubling Kon, however.

"Oh, Mr Kent -- you're so manly!" Bart swooned elaborately in Kon's path, and the American had to side-step neatly to avoid him. 

"Mia," he said, frowning. "That -- that's not a common occurrence, is it?"

"Fainting?" Bart caught up with Kon. "No -- Mia taken a lot of blows from life, but she gives back as good as she gets. Tough as nails she is. I can't think of anyone less likely to fall into your arms."

Kon looked at Bart suspiciously but that didn't seem to be an insult. "I expect that it's due to the full moon and the changes -- not to mention all the excitement. But it's still worrying." Especially coming so close after the incident with Roy. "The full moon's been and gone. Why should it still be affecting them?"

"You're the scholar," Bart said, evidently tiring of the topic of conversation. "Why don't you work it out?"

"Maybe I will," Kon said turning over the incident once more in his mind. Mia was late to lycanthropy ... and she'd confessed that worried at not hearing from Roy, she had pushed herself to visit him. It seemed that since the notorious incident, Kon's compatriot had taken to secreting himself away from the rest of his pack during a change -- he wasn't taking any chances. Mia had cited the warm and crowded atmosphere of the bus as feeling oppressive and suggested that the sudden coldness upon leaving the bus had caused her momentary weakness, but Kon wasn't sure -- he and Bart had delayed their visit to see her recovered, assured of Roy's well-being and safely put into a cab, but he was still troubled. 

Clearly, Kon thought, brightening at the prospect, he would have to pay her a visit. 

He and Bart shared another few blocks companionably before reaching the point where they parted ways. 

"I expect I'll call upon you tomorrow," Bart said. 

"Not coming by for dinner?"

Bart shook his head. "Absence makes the heart grow fonder," he said. "Besides, it's good for Tim if things don't go according to his plan all the time."

More games. "If you say so," Kon doubtfully agreed. "Any message I should pass on?"

Bart eyed him speculatively. "Well there is one thing," he said, his eyes suddenly mischevious. Kon had enough presence of mind to step back, but Bart's reflexes were superior, and his kiss warm. 

We are on a street corner, Kon thought. A very public street corner. He said 'Uh.'

"Of course," Bart said, carelessly straightening Kon's tie. "You don't have to repeat it word for word." He patted Kon's waistcoat and smirked at him. "I bid you goodnight, Kon." And without a backward glance, Bart was gone into the rainy night. 

Kon tugged his tie undone. 

If he'd had any doubts where he stood in Drake and Bart's game of push-me pull-you ...

Drake was on the telephone as Kon arrived home. "You understand of course that I'm not giving you a choice." 

At least he was being straightforward about it, Kon thought, sparing a moment's sympathy for whatever poor sod Drake had on the end of the line as he hung up his coat. 

Drake nodded to him, continuing his conversation unchecked. "Next time it won't be your furniture that gets broken -- yes, I thought you'd see it my way."

Kon paused. That was --

"I'd say it was a pleasure," Drake said. "But I don't lie to people I dislike." He replaced the receiver with his usual crispness. "Well, Kent?"

"So all this time, my mistake was being likeable?"

Drake smirked. "You do yourself a disservice, Mr Kent. Being likeable is the least of your good qualities. Bart's not joining us? Just as well. It's important that he feels independant." 

"You two deserve each other," Kon muttered, making his way down the hall to his room. 

"What was that?"

"Just thinking out loud."

"You're not partaking of dinner? Mrs Mac has outdone herself as usual," Drake followed him to his room. 

Kon paused in the doorway. "I ate on the way home," he said. A lie, but saying he'd lost his appetite was only likely to provoke further query from Drake -- and the last thing Kon wanted to deal with right now was further Drake. "If you don't mind, I do have some study to be getting on with --"

"Of course, your dissertation," Drake said, leaning against the hallway wall and sounding ... self-satisfied? A suspicion occurred to Kon as Drake continued. "I did hope that my little errand would be of use to you."

"You were hoping we'd encounter Roy in his ... condition."

"Was it enlightening?" 

Kon didn't bother to hide the disgust he felt. "In more ways than one."

"You're angry," Drake observed. 

"Once again your grasp of the finer points of the human psyche does not fail to astound."

"Surely you see I have only your best interests at heart. Werewolves are dangerous. No matter how charming a front they put up, you must always remember that three nights of the month, they are little more than murderous beasts, scarcely held in check by human mores --"

"You do recall that it was entirely due to Queen's pack that we made it home safely at all," Kon rejoined hotly. 

"Werewolves, Conner, are not like us. You should know this before you start forming an ill-conceived attachment--"

Kon had endured a lot at Drake's hands, but that was enough. "I beg your pardon."

Drake met his gaze cooly. "You're a long way from home, Conner," he said. "And as gratifying as it is to have found a fellow countryman, even one with connections to your own Professor Harper, Roy is ... you don't know him."

"Are you quite done insulting my judgement? Because if so, I would like to get on with my paper."

Drake sighed. "I don't wish to quarrel with you," he said. "But you must know what it is you're getting into."

It was a little late for that. Kon paced his room, angry at himself, Drake, but mostly himself. Even now, knowing full well where he stood, something stopped him short of leaving. 

Seeking distraction, Kon found the letter he'd started to Professor Harper still on his writing desk. He'd just been detailing his current findings and the direction he was intending to take his research -- by now, hopelessly out of date. Taking up his fountain pen, Kon settled at the desk, beginning afresh with a new piece of paper. 

He'd written two whole chapters of his thesis and was halfway through his third when he realised that the rather obscure piece of folk-lore that Kord based his argument for silver as a psychological weapon was from a volume housed in the British museum. Nothing for it, Kon decided, but to call it a night and to set off to the museum as soon as it was light -- was that coffee he could smell? 

"Morning, Mr Kent. I see you've found the coffee -- bless my soul, but I've never seen anyone so fond of it."

"He does this every morning?"

"That's right. Straight out of the saucepan -- he'll be wanting his toast now."

Kon swallowed the last of the coffee. "No time," he said. "Museum. Book." He paused thoughtfully. Drake hadn't touched his toast. 

"Are you always so elucidated in the morn--" Drake trailed off in astonishment. As if he'd never seen anyone eat toast before. 

But Kon didn't have time to deal with Drake's astonishment. Cross references and footnotes awaited. "Bus," he said. "Back later. Probably."

"Conner," Drake said following him out onto the pavement as Kon pulled on his overcoat and ate the rest of the toast. "Are you quite all right? You seem --"

"Research," Kon explained. 

"Well then," Drake said. "If you're sure --"

As it happened Kon was very sure. The folk-lore in question was easily recognisable as a botched retelling of an older, more common myth, one with far more useful applications on the study of lycanthropy. Kord's mistake had been to rely too much on the translation, a rather poetic attempt involving a lot of poetic licence. With a bit of effort, Kon had found the original german volume, and with these facts at his disposal, he was ready to lay waste to silver as a strictly ornamental weapon. It was half two by the time he left the museum, and as he walked back towards Drake's, he was planning the rest of the chapter in his mind. 

Turning down a rather quiet residential street, he was surprised to encounter Mia just leaving a house -- and from her sharp intake of breath as she spotted him, the surprise was mutual. 

"Miss Dearden," Kon said, raising his hat to her. 

"Mr Kent."

Though the street was residential, the letters stencilled onto the glass pane of the door behind her left no doubt of the purpose of Miss Dearden's visit. "I had hoped you'd be feeling better following yesterday's exertions," Kon said offering her an arm. "But surely the doctor could have come to you?"

Mia hesitated before accepting Kon's offer of an escort. "I'm not that feeble," she said. "Yet." 

"Miss Dearden?" 

She offered him a wry smile. "This visit has nothing to do with yesterday." 

"Ah," Kon could not feel more uncomfortable.

"I don't think I conveyed then just how grateful I am for your kindness. I -- I'm not much, I know that. It's never bothered me before. As long as I can stand on my own two feet and hold a bow, then all the dances and fancy dresses and hairstylists in the world can go to H--- for all I care." Mia held her head up stubbornly. "But then you go and be gallant --"

"Bad habit, I know," Kon interjected. "If it bothers you --"

"It bothers me," said Mia. "But at the same time --" She sighed. "If only things were different." 

"Different?" Kon asked but Mia was frowning. "Listen to me! I sound just like one of those languishing heroines in those awful novels Bart reads."

Kon bit back a smile. "I don't think you could ever be mistaken for a hapless female," he said. "And I should know, having witnessed --" You in distress? In your nightclothes? Not exactly the best line of reassurance here. "Your presence in an emergency," he added hastily. 

Mia was not impressed. "I blame you," she told him. "You and your confounding kindness. I didn't used to be this wishy-washy. I scorned convention and in fact, used to rip into Ollie any time I thought he was favouring me above Roy or Conner on account of my sex. If any of my pack saw us like this --"

"I beg your pardon," Kon said. "I didn't mean to imply --"

"I'm taking your arm, only because you've been so kind, that to refuse would be impolite in the extreme," Mia said. "But I'll have you know I can walk just fine without it."

"I don't doubt it," Kon said. 

"If I'm leaning on you a little, don't fancy that it's because my weakend feminine frame can't keep up with your pace. I'll have you know that it's solely a reflection of your --" Mia paused, realising too late the bind she'd put herself in. 

"Kindness?" said Kon very definitely not smiling. 

"Kindness," agreed Mia. 

Kon was too polite to remark upon the fact that she was blushing. "If it makes you feel any better, I have to confess that my motives in offering you my arm were based as much upon my desire for your company as out of concern for your condition. In fact, although the confession will undoubtedly lower your esteem of me, I should admit now that even as we talk, I am pondering taking such a liberty with you as would irrevocably ruin our friendship."

Mia stopped walking. "You --"

"I want to kiss you."

"Mr Kent," Mia said drawing herself up proudly. "I have to say that I am not only shocked but disappointed as well. I had such high opinion of your conduct that, if you have any desire to salvage this situation, you had better make the kiss a d----- good one."

Kon did what he could.


	28. Without further ado...

He had Mia's permision to call on her the following afternoon, and he'd take enough notes at the British library to satisfy even the most pernicious of professors. Kon mounted the steps to Drake's townhouse smartly, feeling himself the equal of anything that Drake or Bart could throw at him. Let Drake interrogate or yea, make sarcastic remarks -- Kon was ready for it. Bart could be as aggravating as he chose -- Kon was tonight the master of equamity. Zhombies and werewolves, even vampyres, could riot through the streets of London, and Conner Kent would not blink an eye. Tonight was his. 

It was a pity he'd not thought to inform Anita of this fact. 

"Back," Kon announced, hanging up his overcoat in the hallway. "I was detained on the road --" He paused. 

Mrs Mac usually called out a greeting once she heard the door ... nothing. And was that smoke he smelt? 

Alarmed, Kon opened the drawing room door. "What's going --"

He choked. The smoke was thick and worse -- underneath it the too familiar smell of burning flesh and blood. Kon managed a half step backwards before his vision clouded. Bart and Anita looked up at him startled and Kon had just enough time to recognise them and then everything went stark Kansas sun and the numbing scent of guilt. 

Something wasn't right. 

Kon blearily stared upwards. What in the b----- was Drake's drawing room ceiling doing there? And what was that smell?

"Nngh," he said. "Pickle?"

Anita bent over him. "Bart, he's coming to. You can put da condiments away, mon."

"Condiments?"

"I don' carry smelling salts," Anita said, kneeling over him to dab at his forehead. "So we had t' improvise. Oh Kon honey -- I am sorry." 

"Can you sit?" Bart asked, his eyes round and worried. 

"What happened?" Kon asked, groggily letting Anita help him sit. "Did I ... ?"

"Like a ton of bricks mon," Anita said and Bart added. 

"I've never seen anyone go down so fast."

"Ha," said Kon. Now that he was regining cognisance of his surroundings, he was aware of the lingering smoke and felt sick to his stomach. There was still some blood visible on the newsprint Anita and Bart had spread on the floor and a few chicken feathers left no doubt what they'd been doing. "The smoke --"

"We opened a window. Will you be all right mon? You're white as a ghost --"

"Whiter," Bart said. "Greta has more colour than you do now."

"I'll be fine," Kon struggled to his feet. "Just need some air." He paused. "My shirt."

"Well, you were unconscious. We needed t' get you ventilated."

"None of this explains the arcane symbols painted on my chest."

"I figured dat since I was planning on casting protection on you for da ball, mon, dat I could just as well do it now while you were unconscious. You know, save wear and tear on da floor."

"I'm touched." Kon said. 

"You don't look touched," Bart observed. "You look more ... nauseated."

"The two are often confused," Kon said retrieving his shirt. "I'm going to freshen up."

"Just one moment, mon." Anita dabbed her finger in a mix of what smelt like sulphur and blood and smeared it across his chest. "Dere," she said, making the final touch. "You're all done."

Kon gulped and made an ignominous dash for the bathroom. 

By the time he emerged, skin scrubbed so hard that no one would be able to accuse him of being pale, Anita had left, taking all her acrouements with her, and Drake had arrived home. 

"So let me see if I understand this," Drake said, nodding in acknowledgement of Kon's presence as he joined him and Bart in the drawing room. "You gave my servant a day's leave so you could use my drawing room for arcane arts."

"You know Mrs Mac doesn't like black magic," Bart said, idly lounging in the biggest of Drake's armchairs. "And her day off's tomorrow. What difference does it make?"

"It means that Mrs Mac hasn't left us dinner as she usually does. And we can't go out to eat, I'm expecting a phone call."

"So we'll improvise," Bart said. "It can't be that hard to cook. Anita even left us a chicken."

Kon swallowed, but it appeared that Drake wasn't having any of it. "And have you burn down the house in the process? I think not. You've already done enough damage -- look at this big dent in my floor. That wasn't there this morning."

"I'll just have a look in the cupboards," Kon said clearly, deciding the kitchen was the better place to be. 

With the kitchen windows wide open and the discovery that Anita had already consigned the chicken to the ice box, Kon felt much better. The onion stung his eyes a little, but he remembered standing side by side with Ma in her kitchen, curtains pulled against the winter air and the kitchen warm and bright, and watching as she showed him how to cut them neatly. He should write her, Kon thought, adding carrots to the now bubbling soup. 

"That doesn't smell half bad," Bart observed in tones of great surprise wandering into the kitchen to stare at the pot. "You never let on that you could cook."

"I can handle the basics," Kon explained, setting the kitchen table for the three of them. "Ma said every bachelor should know how to feed himself, and it's pretty hard to ruin chicken soup."

"Chicken?" Bart asked, studying the soup. "But aren't you vegetarian?"

"It'd be pretty dull without the chicken bones to give it flavor," Kon explained. "And boiled ... I can eat. It's just the cooking --"

"Is that why you passed out?" Bart asked. 

Kon hesitated then realised he didn't have a lot left to lose. He nodded, ladling the soup into a bowl for Bart. 

To his astonishment -- and indeed, quiet gratification -- Bart didn't say anything more on the subject. "Do we have toast to go with this?" He asked. "Ow, it's hot."

"You did see me take it off the stove right now -- Drake, soup for you?"

"Please," Drake said taking his gloves off as he joined them at the table. "That was the phonecall. All our current leads have come to nothing, so we're meeting again tomorow for a change of tack. As I have no pressing business to take care of, I was thinking we could use the evening to consolidate and review all our preparations for the Ball -- Conner, did you make this?"

"It's just soup," Kon said, pouring himself a bowl, and placing it on the table with Bart's toast. "Hardly an accomplishment."

"I have to hand it to you colonials. Your practicality really knows no bounds."

"In my opinion," Bart said, tone light and amused. "The American way of life has much to recommend it."

Kon shot him a suspicious glance, unsure what he was implying, but it was Drake who took Bart up on it. 

"I knew I missed something. What happened this afternoon?"

"You'll find out tomorrow," Bart said. "After your fittings, Anita's going to lay a protection on you. She did the house and the rest of us today."

"Out of the question," Drake frowned. "I'm a foundation member, I can't go around dabbling in Voduin --"

"You're also the one of us that's the most at risk," Bart protested. "You must see --"

"Of course I'm aware of the danger," Drake said. "That doesn't change the fact that I just can't condone it." 

"But --"

"Do these Voduin rituals have anything to do with the new addition to my floor? Were the three of you moving furniture or something?"

"It's a dent, Tim. Not an affront upon your personal dignity. Let it go."

Kon endured. 

Eventually, the conversation returned to the real matter at hand -- Cobblepot's plot. 

"All of Anita's magic fixes on his mansion as the source of the strange happenings," Bart reported. "But nothing more than that."

"Queen says that just looking at the man raises his hackles," Kon said. "But they haven't so much as caught the scent of the beast responsible for the attack."

"Neither has the Foundation," Drake said thoughtfully, resting his chin upon his index fingers as he thought. "Further interviews with eye-witnesses to the attack have confirmed that it smelt similar to the zhombies of our little outbreak, but we've little else to go on." He paused. "The Director," he admitted slowly as if it were a personal failure, "has been unable to secure entrance to the Ball for any of his agents. We're it."

"So where do we go from here?"

"We keep on as we've been doing," Drake decided. "Bart, you and Anita continue to try and find out as much as you can from the Voduin traces -- we still have no idea of the identity of the woman in the warehouse. I'll see if anything comes from the meeting tomorrow, and focus my attention on perfecting my costume for the Ball. Kent, as you're spending so much time in the British library anyway, why not see if you can find out if anyone else has been looking at the books on werewolves. Continue with your day-to-day life as much as you can -- keep any social engagements, don't alter your schedules. At this juncture, it is critical that we are not suspected of any duplicity."

"About that," Bart said regretfully. "My employer seems to have fled the country, so I'm once again a man of leisure."

"Fled the country?" Kon repeated. 

"That is a blow," Drake consoled him. "Still, perhaps at this moment, employment would be an unnecessary complication. It might be for the best."

Drake's definition of the best might have been questionable, but the rest of the week progressed pretty much as he'd planned. Anita and Bart both broached the subject of his protection with him, but Drake was adamant against it. Kon broadened his research on werewolves to include walking with Mia on her charitable excursions, visiting the families of the factory workers and distributing food and medicines, and even making a survey or two of London pubs with Roy. His thesis acquired several more chapters and a bibliography and the clandestine dance lessons continued.

The final fittings were made and parcels began to be delivered to Drake's residence. Drake's boxes were whisked up to his room even before Kon and Bart could speculate on their contents, and finally, on the day of the Ball, the four of them met at Drake's residence to begin their preparations. 

"Ah, Conner," Drake said, hailing Kon as he emerged from the bathroom. "Just the man I wanted."

It was the moment that Kon had been dreading. "No."

"No? But my good man, you don't even know--"

"You can't do the corset by yourself," Kon said. "You need help."

"Full marks for deduction," Drake said. "Look, you must help me. You're the only one in this household who wouldn't take advantage of this situation, and you know it."

"Mrs Mac --"

"Has the week off and is visiting her sister in Shrewsbury."

"Anita's a girl. She knows about corsets --"

"Miss Fite hates me and while I do admit she could do the job adequately, I prefer my ribs intact."

"Bart knows a lot more about this than I do --"

"Bart for all his advantages, is not above petty revenge."

"Some petty revenge might do you good," Kon muttered. 

"I beg your pardon?"

"You're not going to let this go, are you?" Kon sighed. "Fine, but only under duress."

"Naturally, Conner."

Drake's dressing gown concealed the fact that he was already clad in petticoat and a white undervest embroidered with lace and blue ribbon. 

"There is such a thing as going to extremes," Kon observed. 

"I like to think of it as attention to detail," Drake said. "It bothers you doesn't it."

"Let's just get on with this." 

Drake tugged the corset on over his head. "If you insist. Although I have to say that avoiding the subject is not going to bring you any relief," he said, turning his back to Kon and bracing himself against the dresser.

"You needn't worry yourself on my part," Kon said, reluctantly taking up the corset's laces. He paused as he belatedly realised that this meant he would have to stand directly behind Drake. 

"But then, who will?" Kon could just see Drake's smirk in the mirror. "You keep blinding yourself to it, you're never going to know what you need."

So, that was it. "And I suppose you know," Kon kept his voice even as he let his leg brush Drake's. 

"I may have ... an inkling or two." Drake's voice hitched satisfyingly as Kon pressed him further against the dresser. "Conner --"

"Let me know when," Kon said and tugged. 

"I'm beginning to see why Bart might ... have drawn comparisons between this ... and a medieval torture device."

"Too tight?"

"No ... I'll just need a moment to adjust." Drake took a long breath to steady himself. His body was taut, his fingers clutching the dresser edge. Although his voice was still calm, his reflection in the mirror was suspiciously flushed. Kon didn't think he'd even seen him less self-possessed. 

It was -- 

"Ready?" Kon didn't wait for a reply, bracing himself against Drake and pulling. 

"That's f-fine," Drake wavered. "Thank you, Conner."

"You're welcome." Kon tied the corset off. "Is that everything?"

"For now."

"Are you sure I can't open you a window or something? You seem a little out of breath."

"No, no ... I'm just --" Drake's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "I ... stand corrected. It seems you are not above some petty revenge after all."

"I learned from the best," Kon affected modesty. 

"Bravo, Conner. I was beginning ... to think you'd never come around."

This was not the reaction Kon had been expecting. "Excuse me?" he asked nonplussed. 

"We've been open -- well, as much as one can be," Drake said reclining against the dresser in a way that was typically him and so incongruous given his attire, that Kon was almost certain he was sincere. "Laying bare our rules and motives -- not because we've tired of you, but as invitation. Do you see?"

It made sense in the same sort of way that nothing Drake or Bart did made sense. 

"Invitation to what exactly?" Kon asked. 

"That," Drake said clearly. "Depends on you."


	29. Finally, the ball!

Anita took one of the spare guest bedrooms to prepare for the Ball, Drake refused to let anyone enter his room until he was done, and Bart and Kon used Kon's room to put on their freshly made dress coats and to make the final adjustments to their costume. 

"See," Bart said smugly, fastening his cufflinks. "I told you it was worth it. A good tailor is worth his weight in gold."

At any other time, Kon would have greeted this pronouncement with marked scepticism, but looking at his reflection in the mirror, he had to admit he was impressed. "Look at me," he said. "I could be a lord or a peer or something." The tail-coat was slate grey, the cut slightly old fashioned, but no one could deny it had something. 

"No Lord would be seen dead in those colors," said Bart. "Which is why it works." At Kon's frown he explained. "The members of the club -- they're outside society and so outside society's mores. To blend in, you have to be incongruous."

"I wondered at the cut," Kon took a last look at his oddly-smart reflection and shook his head. "What Ma would say."

"I told you that you cleaned up nicely," Bart said proudly, taking full credit for Kon's transformation. "If you'd just let me throw away your sweaters --"

"No."

"Kon," Anita greeted them cheerfully as she joined them in the drawing room. "I'd almost forgotten how good you could pull off a suit, mon."

Kon treated her to a full-blown bow. "You've out-done yourself," he told her. "If your father could see you now, he'd never let you past the front door."

Anita laughed. "You say da sweetest tings." She'd opted for a daringly low cut dress in a fiery shade of orange, a lighter choice than her usual crimson, and when the light hit her dress it looked almost copper. She'd paired it with a shawl and gloves of spidery black lace, and pinned her curls up with an ornament of a beryl the same shade as her dress and a few dyed feathers. On anyone else it would have had the suggestion of Music hall hopeful or even worse, but Anita carried it off with her usual flair. Kon, who'd always known she was alluring, was surprised to find that she was beautiful as well. 

"Don't I get a compliment?" Bart twirled his cane. His suit was almost identical to Kon's, but he'd chosen a muted wine-coloured red as his highlight colour. 

"On what? Dere's no doubt dat you can pull off a suit," Anita teased him. "Even one of Drake's."

"Hush," said Bart. "He'll hear." 

But Drake showed no sign either of hearing or of being ready to come downstairs. 

"Still no?" Anita grumbled as Bart returned alone. "I swear dat man's spent longer getting ready den all three of us combined."

"Did you tell him the carriage is here?" Kon said, peaking out through the curtains at the coach with it's cloaked attendant. "I swear the driver hasn't moved once since he's got here."

"He knows," Bart said glumly. "He said he's almost done."

"He said that half an hour ago."

"This is an odd time for you to take up punctuality, mon. If you managed t' arrive late to every one of father's examinations --"

"Morning is no time for people to have to think," Kon said, unmoving from his place by the window. "No ... there's something odd about that man."

"He's probably asleep," Anita joined Kon at the curtains. "Like we will be if Drake doesn't hurry it up. And dey say dat women are vain --"

"No -- watch closely. I think I've put my foot on it -- see the horses? They haven't so much as flicked an ear." 

"And dat's bad?"

"Think about it, Anita. Have you ever known an animal that could stay that still for so long?"

"The horses could have fallen asleep," Bart said carelessly, idly joining them. "I have to admit that Tim's --" He started as he caught sight of their coachman. "That's not --"

"I have to admit I was hoping to make more of an entrance."

The three of them turned in unison to see Drake demurely arranging his wrap. "Are we quite done dallying at the window?" he asked and even his voice was different. He surveyed them calmly, conscious that his wig was perfectly arranged, that his shoulders softened by the high sleeves of his gown, that the flashes of white skin displayed at his neck were enough to convey feminine modesty and that his dress could not have been better suited to him. Kon had to admit that he had pulled off the gentlewoman guise with flair. 

It was such a pity it was all wrong.

"Well?" Drake demanded. "As gratified as I am to have rendered you silent, this is becoming excessive. We have an appointment." 

"Drake," said Kon carefully. "Don't take this the wrong way."

"You're perfect," said Bart, equally daunted. "Utterly and completely. It's just --"

"Dere gonna eat you alive, mon, no joke." 

Not the reception Drake had been expecting. "What do you mean?" he asked. "I thought of every detail --"

"You look," said Kon, awkwardly conscious of the club's strange decor. "Like this season's debutante."

"Not like you've been compelled from your house against de wishes of your parents by de charms of de soulless vampyre. Apologies Bart."

"No offence taken," Bart glanced at the clock. "I think it's not too late to salvage this."

"I agree mon. Lucky I bought my nail scissors."

"What are you going to do?" Drake asked, backing towards the door. 

Bart got there first. "Just a little ... rearranging. This won't hurt a bit."

"Kon, you better let de driver know we'll be delayed."

The driver was perched on the front of the cab like some watching gargoyle, his face -- what was visible of it over his scarf -- was grim and fore-boding. The horses stood at mute attention before him, and Kon didn't blame them -- he found himself strangely averse to making any movement that would attract the man's attention too. As it happened he didn't have that luxury. The driver scowled at him, his eyes blue and sharp underneath a jagged scar that clipped across one temple. 

"We've been delayed," Kon reported, supressing the urge to apologise. "Shouldn't be too long now."

The man grunted and watched him. 

Kon was pondering whether it would look like less of a retreat if he walked back inside slowly, when the door opened and Drake stalked out, shawl wrapped tightly around his shoulders and scowling. Anita and Bart followed at a safe distance. 

Kon made to open the door of the coach but Drake made straight for the coach man. "We'll have to hurry to arrive while it's congested still," he said. "But we should have enough time. You'll have recognised Conner Kent, and this is Miss Anita Fite."

The man nodded acknowledgement, and Kon awkwardly ducked his head. What now ... ?

"Bart?" Drake was firmly in control of the situation again, giving Bart his cue to escort him into coach. Kon offered Anita his arm and handed her up into the coach in silence. Almost immediately the driver flicked his whip and they were rattling over London pavement towards the Cobblepot family home. 

The odd flash of light as they passed beneath a street lamp was the only disturbance within the carriage. Drake arranged his skirts so as to keep them as unruffled as possible, the light catching on his delicate crystal ear-drops and making what was already a surreal experience even more so. Anita and Bart had unaminously chosen to sit, like Kon had, on the far seat, as distant as possible from their driver, leaving Drake alone, so Kon had opportunity to notice the finer points of Drake's costume. He'd somehow managed to alter the shape of his face, his cheeks seemed plumper, and the shape of his nose and chin were different -- fake no doubt. He'd somehow managed to disguise his muscular build as puppyfat, and nothing in his bearing gave him away. Given that he'd taken so much trouble to alter his features, it seemed odd then that he should have chosen a wig in his natural shade. 

Kon was still puzzling this out as they arrived at their destination. "Is there a problem, Conner?" Drake asked as Kon helped him down from the carriage, Anita and Bart, showing their invitations to the footman. 

"Wouldn't it," Kon asked, helping Drake arrange his wrap, and then offering him his arm -- Drake might not have been a real woman, but that was no excuse for bad manners -- "have made more sense to go blonde or brunette rather than ...?"

"Surely you've noticed that Bart has a definite type," Drake observed with amusement, as their coachman shook the reins and joined the press of carriages around the stables, and the two of them followed Anita and Bart up the stairs. 

"Would the ladies care to leave their wraps?" A suited doorman asked. Anita promptly divested herself of her shawl but Bart took Drake's arm before he could answer. "Is there a powder room?" he asked. "My partner has a few finishing touches to make."

"We'll see you inside," Anita decided, making herself comfortable on Kon's arm. "Don't be too long."

There was polite applause as Cobblepot's butler announced them and the man himself came forward to shake their hands. "I'm especially glad that the two of you decided to join us," he said, shaking Kon's hand and bowing to Anita. "Add a bit of trans-atlantic style to my little affair."

"Little?" said Kon with feeling. "I'd like to see what you consider big."

They'd been shown into a drawing room not dissimilar in proportion to a small cathedral. Through the opened doorways, Kon could see the ball room beyond, just as grand. Both rooms were full of people mingling, talking and dancing -- and what people. He caught sudden glimpses of fang and claw through silk and velvet and even the occasional horns --

"You flatter me, Mr Kent. Indeed, you do." Cobblepot bowed again, his hunched frame making the gesture more of an ungainly duck. "Please, both of you, enjoy yourselves. Dance -- yes, join the dancing."

Dismissed, they made their way through the drawing room to stake out seats.

"Dat man --" Anita shivered delicately. "Dere's something wrong about him ... and yes, even despite the gathering."

"You have to give him credit for one thing," Kon said, eyeing a passing woman who appeared to be wearing lace and little else. "He knows how to throw a party."

"Heel Kon," Anita said amused. "We are here on business, mon. Remember?"

At that point Bart and Drake appeared at the top of the stairway, the butler taking Bart's invitation prior to announcing them. "Bartholemew Allen the second," he read. "And --"

None of them had inquired Drake's alias. 

"Dis is going to be bad," Anita muttered, and Kon nodded eyeing up potential exits. 

Bart laughed. "Just a little tid-bit," he said perfectly assured and the room roared with laughter. Kon had the rather odd pleasure of seeing someone else flustered under that barb and then Bart was leading Drake down to be presented to Cobblepot. Kon saw them speaking to Dent and then lost them in the crowd of people that flocked to speak to Bart. 

"He's popular," he observed.

"Well, of course mon. His family's old and Bart's been coming to the club for years," Anita explained. "We'll be lucky if we see anything of him."

The four of them didn't reunite until after Anita and Kon had completed a few sets on the dance floor and were sampling the refreshments. 

"Isn't this grand?" Bart demanded, greeting them breathlessly. "I've never seen so many of us all in one place."

"And de music," Anita agreed. "You have to hand it to de mon, he's gone all out."

"May I?" Bart inquired with a sweeping bow, and Anita delightedly handed Kon her glass. 

"Be a dear, Kon? 

"Remember to pause for a rest occasionally," Kon cautioned them. "You're unusually quiet," he said, turning to Drake. 

Drake grimaced. "This ... is rather different than what I was expecting," he admitted. Anita and Bart had sabotaged his dress to the extent it was now considerably more risque, and the finishing touches Bart had administered to his costume had left him looking mussed and rumpled -- much, in fact, like a meal in progress. Drake was not only aware of this fact, but disconcerted by it, his act of flustered maiden assisted by what Kon suspected was very real unease. 

"Let's take a turn around the room," he suggested, taking pity on a whim. 

They'd gone halfway around the ballroom before Drake spoke. "In all the time I've spent studying this other world within London, I never imagined there were so many --"

"Not just London," Kon commented. "The satyrs I was talking to earlier came here all the way from Greece just to attend. And then there's quite a few travellers like Anita and myself."

"It's like another world," Drake said. "One ... that Bart belongs to."

Kon looked over to where Anita and Bart spun on the dance floor. "He's in his element tonight," Kon agreed. "You haven't seen this side of him before."

Drake shook his head. "I'm wondering what else I've missed. This -- isn't what I expected at all."

He could have been referring to the gathering around them, but Kon had his suspicions that Drake was concerned with only one individual present. "So Bart's having a good time," he shrugged. "And maybe he doesn't need you so much right now. Why is that such a surprise? No man likes to be dependant."

That earned him a startled appraising glance. "Perhaps you have something there," Drake agreed cautiously. 

Kon rolled his eyes. "Look --"

A fork tapped against a glass signalled quiet, and Bart and Anita joined them as Dent took the centre of the dance floor. "Friends," he said. "Look around you. Have you ever seen such a gathering? Truly we owe our host our gratitude for a night none of us will soon forget." This pronouncement was met with applause and Dent waved everyone into silence. "Lord Cobblepot's a modest man -- he told me that he wants no more thanks than the sight of this ballroom floor filled -- so who will join me in this next dance?"

"Anita?" Bart asked. 

"Sorry, mon -- it was all I could do to keep up with you on the last set," Anita said. 

"Perhaps a rest wouldn't go amiss," Bart began slowly. 

"Actually your partner here was just mentioning that she felt ready to chance the dance floor," Kon said. 

The hand that Drake rested on Kon's arm tightened reflexively, as Bart beamed hopefully. "You would ... ?"

"That's what we're here for, isn't it?" Drake said, all composure as he took Bart's arm and they joined the rest of the crowd. 

Kon watched them go with an odd knot in his stomach. "All those dance lessons had better be worth it."

"I beg your pardon mon?"

"Nothing," Kon said turning to Anita. "You wanted to rest?"

Anita preferred the cooler atmosphere of the balconeys overlooking the gilded ballroom, and they leaned against the railings watching the dancers below. 

"I sort of expected something to have happened by now," Kon noted. 

"Know what you mean, mon. It's been fun and all but ... why de elaborate preparations and de Voduin?"

"Perhaps the Foundation managed to upset Cobblepot enough he's called the whole thing off," Kon said idly, watching as the dancers began a new set, each dancing couple forming a point in what was, from this height, nothing so much as an evolving series of geometric arrangements. Kon was reminded of a kaleidoscope.

"I have de feeling someone like Cobblepot doesn't scare so easily --" Anita sighed. "

Bright blue light flickered just under the ballroom floor and Kon stared. "Anita -- look."

"What is it?"

"Before -- there was a moment where everyone was in alignment and it looked almost as though --"

The dancers spun and moved on, every body moving in unison and there was a moment where the circle was as clear as if it had been drawn. Then the same blue light Kon had glimpsed erupted and as one, the dancers fell.


	30. In which Bart needs to work on his timing.

For a long moment, Kon could only stare in horror. The ballroom suddenly stock silent, the dancers lying still where they'd fallen -- with a start he found himself, hurrying down the staircase to where Bart and Drake had fallen with the rest. 

It was as if the sharp clatter of his boots on the wood stirred the others, watching, out of their shocked trance. There were murmurs of concern and alarm, and by the time Kon reached their friends, others were trying vainly to stir the sleepers. Bart's hand was still curled around Drake's shoulder, and he made a soft sound of discontent but didn't stir as Kon lifted it to check his pulse. Drake was limp and completely unresponsive. 

"What is it, mon -- are they ... ?" Anita asked worried. 

"They're not dead," Kon assured her. "I think -- it's like a trance or something. They're sleeping but they're not waking --"

"Voduin," Anita said. "Good G--. I never imagined -- so large a scale. Why de power dey'll have gathered --"

There was a sharp metallic click, and Kon looked up to see that the musicians had laid down the instruments in favour of guns. As the footmen joined them, using the barrels of their weapons to usher all those who'd escaped the spell into one place, he carefully interposed himself between them and Anita. 

"You know what to do men," Cobblepot bit his cigar well pleased as he surveyed the scene infront of him from the stairs Kon and Anita had just vacated. "Brook no resistance but remember -- these are our reserves."

Not the most promising thing Kon had heard in his life. 

"You heard the man. Move!" 

They didn't really have a choice, Kon decided. While he could have shielded Anita from one or two guns with his body, the fact that they were surrounded meant he'd be endangering her if he fought back. "Anita --"

"Nnngh," Bart stirred, sleepily taking stock of his surroundings. "Wha --" His eyes widened as he noticed Drake's still form. "Ti --"

Kon moved fast, gathering Bart up and clamping his hand over his mouth with a speed many would have envied. "Don't say anything," he hissed in Bart's ear. "We're surrounded."

This did not go unnoticed. "Those three --" Cobblepot glared at them. "Very suspicious that all of them escaped the spell. I won't take any chances -- Snart, secure them separately from the rest."

"Let's have the girl in front -- either of you gents try anything, and she'll catch it. Come on then." Snart ushered them towards the door. 

Bart took a few steps then swayed and stumbled. 

"What did we tell you? Move it, or else--"

"He's not doing it on purpose," Kon argued, hastily kneeling by Bart's side. "Bart, what's wrong?"

Bart blinked at him, his eyes heavy and unfocused and Kon felt his heart sink -- this was not good. 

"You've got till the count of three to get him up and moving," Snart had gathered some helpers, and Kon felt the barrel of a rifle poke his shoulder. "One --"

Kon lifted Bart over his shoulder and stood.

They were left in what might once have been a wine cellar but had since been fitted with grates and bars to make a serviceable prison. 

"Dere cursed," Anita pronounced. "Magic won't touch dem."

"Given the way Bart reacted when we passed through them, I'm guessing they're protected against more than magic," Kon said, worriedly, more concerned with their friend than their prison. "He's still shivering."

Anita joined him. "He really doesn't look so good. I wonder why he woke up and none of de rest of dem did."

"You don't think it was your charm --"

"No mon. I know my limits. Dis power activated here tonight -- it's beyond what I'm capable of."

"So everything I endured was for nothing?"

"I wouldn't say dat. After all, Drake's floor will never be de same."

"Funny." Kon draped his evening coat over Bart, letting his hand rest against his friend's cheek, feeling the coolness of skin with no small alarm. Bart opened dazed eyes, and Kon tried a reassuring smile. "We have to undo whatever spell they cast."

"Not arguing with you dere mon. De only question is how."

Kon squeezed Bart's shoulder then stood, making his way to the locked door of their cell. "I'm not vampire, were, any monster known to man," Kon said. "And I don't use magic. I wonder --" He braced himself and pushed. 

"Dey really should have thought to guard against Americans," Anita congratulated Kon as he helped her through the bars. 

"I'm not complaining," Kon said casting a look back at Bart. "Think he'll be all right?"

"He has to be," Anita said. "Dere's nothing he can do in his condition."

"Right," Kon said. It felt awful leaving Bart alone but they didn't have a lot of options ... "So where to now?"

"De way that circle we saw worked ... my guess is we'll find dat we want below it."

"We're already underground ... come on." Kon led back the way they'd been taken. 

Making their way carefully through the remains of the Cobblepot family's extensive wine cellars, Kon and Anita made slow progress, having to duck and hide anytime they heard Cobblepot's servants approach. They were unable to avoid more than a few encounters. 

"I tell you mon, you keep knocking Cobblepot's men unconscious, he's gonna notice."

"Well I can't help it, can I?" Kon complained, stowing the latest unfortunate villain to cross their path behind a handy row of barrels. "What would you have me do? Just leave them be?"

"Ko--"

Anita broke off unexpectedly. Kon spun around expecting the worst. 

He was not expecting Bart. 

He was definitely not expecting Bart to be holding Anita tightly, one arm twisted behind her back, keeping her bent as he nuzzled the side of her neck with a satisfied purr. 

"Of all the times for you to develop an interest in women --"

"Kon," Anita sounded pained. "Please --"

He was hurting her, Kon realised with a sickening suspicion. Not only that, he'd recovered very fast for someone who had been unable even to stand on his own when they'd left the cell. "Bart," he said, trying for all the world to sound as if he was unaware that his friend had progressed to licking her neck. "Let her go."

That earned him a scornful glare. "That's not how it works, Conner." Bart's voice was lazy with an undercurrent of cruel and strangely fascinating. "You don't tell me what to do -- I tell you." And with a satisfied smirk, the Vampyre turned back to Anita. 

Kon caught a flash of fang as Bart bent over her and the horror was enough to shake off some of his confusion. Unable to make himself move, he sank to the ground, fighting the heaviness in his thoughts. Gasping, Kon steadied his hand against the tunnel floor. He had to break free of the vampyre's compulsion -- 

Something clicked into place and the ground jumped under his fingers. A second later, Bart was knocked away from Anita, as surely as he'd been hit. 

Kon stared as the vampyre rolled and came to a pause further down the corridor. Just what had happened ... ?

Anita moaned, collapsing to her knees. Spots of red appeared on the ground beside her, and Kon stumbled over to her, still fighting off the cloud in his head. 

"What happened? Why would Bart --?"

"It's not Bart," Kon told her, helping her to her feet. Her neck was bleeding, but thankfully it didn't seem to have gone deep. "He didn't stay awake while everyone else was put to sleep," Kon explained, digging in his pocket for a handkerchief to press to her neck. "They've woken up the vampyre."

"Is that it?" The Vampyre had recovered already. "They'll pay for messing with what is mine," he said, stalking towards them. 

"Anita," Kon said, pushing her behind him. "Do you think you can run?"

"De only question is where to."

"I want you to get out of here -- find Queen, the Foundation, anyone. This is too big for us to handle on our own."

"And just leave you?"

"All those people there in the ball room -- Anita, you're their only chance."

Anita hesitated. "Dat is so like a man," she complained. "Kon -- you better be alive so I can lecture you on your old-fashioned notions of chivalry when I get back." And she ran.

Kon didn't even have the time to be relieved. Turning, he found himself nose to nose almost with the Vampyre. Kon might have had the advantage of several inches in height but he was not in control here -- and they both knew it. 

"You let my meal go," the Vampyre accused. "Now how will I feed?"

Kon backed away. "Bart," he said. "This isn't like you --"

"And that's the beauty of it, Conner." Bart shot him a grin, amused, sly, indecent -- Kon really did not need those thoughts. "Bart's not strong enough to take what he wants -- but I am."

D---, B---- and D--- it all to H---. 

"Bart, now's not the time for this," Kon tried. "If Drake were here, he'd agree --"

"But Tim's not here. That's the point." Bart moved so fast it seemed he'd vanished, up until Kon felt the Vampyre pressed against his side. He reflexively hit out at Bart, but with even greater speed, the vampire had ducked the blow and launched an attack of his own. 

This, thought Kon, hitting the wall of the corridor. Could pose a problem. 

"You see? Tim gives me what I want. He's very good -- I won't let anyone take my Tim away. You on the other hand --" the Vampyre's hand closed on the back of Kon's neck.

The vampyre blocked Kon's punch but wasn't expecting the kick. He grunted as he collided with the stone wall, and Kon pulled himself back onto his feet, ready to take his own advice to Anita and run. 

He didn't get far at all. 

"You're being most vexatious." Bart had somehow got in front of him, planting a hand on Kon's chest and looking him square in the eye. "If you'd just give me what I want -- I'd take good care of you, Conner, the best ... you know I would." His voice was soft, persuasive -- 

"Bart," Kon said, helplessly. "This -- you can't --" He bumped into the wall -- nowhere to run. 

"But Conner. I can and I will." He'd worked one hand inside Kon's shirt and Kon shivered despite all his best intentions. "Must you be so difficult? You're only delaying me from getting back my Tim."

There was a very good reason that he shouldn't give in to Bart, but Kon just couldn't think of it. "Bart --"

"That's right," Bart's teeth grazed Kon's neck lightly, and Kon caught his breath. His body had already decided which way it was going, his hand dropping to Bart's side pulling him closer. 

Bart made a satisfied noise, nuzzling Kon's jaw and working a series of kisses down Kon's neck. Kon shut his eyes as he felt fang against his skin and then Bart bit down. 

... and bit. 

And bit again.

And making a frustrated whine, chewed. 

"Having problems there?" Kon asked, unimpressed.

"No, no problems. I just need to find a vein -- nngh."

"Bart?" 

"Ou urt my toof.' The Vampyre pouted at Kon. "Why? Don't you want me to get Tim back?"

"Tim?"

"There's strong magic here," the Vampyre said. "I'm going to need more power to face it." He poked Kon. "Give me your blood."

"Do I have to?"

"If you won't, I'll find someone else," the Vampyre threatened. 

"Blood's ... binding, right? You said so."

Something glittered in the Vampyre's eyes. "You seek to make a bargain with me?" He asked with an air of indulgance. 

Now was not the time to resent being patronised. "If you promise not to kill anyone, I'll let you --"

"Feed?" The Vampyre wasn't even trying to hide the hunger in his voice now. Kon swallowed. 

"Do you promise?"

"Fine, Conner. I promise, but only because I want to have my way with you."

"Uh," said Kon. "Right. Well. Do you have a knife? Feeding's not going to work the usual way."


	31. Kon's timing sucks.

It took Kon a few minutes of puzzled contemplation to work out what he was doing on the floor of Cobblepot's pantry. The dull ache in his neck helped, as did the wreck the Vampyre had made of his clothes, and the other marks he'd left behind. Kon winced as he stood.

He was alone in the pantry of course. Kon hadn't expected anything more, but it still ... 

He didn't have time for this, Kon reminded himself. There was a vampyre on the prowl, a sinister Voduin plot underfoot and his vest was a wreck. Not only that, but at some point someone was bound to want to use the pantry. 

Something had evidently happened while Kon had been out. He encountered Cobblepot's servants less frequently, and when he did, they were usually in pairs, armed to the teeth, and -- Kon fancied -- scared as H---. 

"I'm telling you, I heard something," said one of the henchmen, dangerously close to Kon's current hiding place, a disused cupboard. 

"You're imagining it," his companion sneered. "Look, I tell you, a vampyre wouldn't make a sound. Come on, we keep searching. You want to end up like Snart?"

"I know what I heard ... you could at least share the garlic."

Their footsteps died away and Kon waited until he was sure he was alone to climb out of his cramped hiding space. Casting a wary look after the departing henchman, Kon turned to go the opposite direction -- and found himself nose to the chest of a tall figure, swathed in black. He started, but before he could react, a rough hand clamped over his mouth.

"Make no sound," said the man, his voice quiet, yet still authoritative with a tone that tolerated no disobedience. "There are two sentries posted just around the corner. You yell, and they'll be on us for sure. Nod if you understand."

Kon nodded. 

The man released him, and Kon was startled to recognise their driver. If recognise was the right word -- his bearing was entirely different, alert and upright rather than hunched. He had, however, lost none of his intimidation factor. Kon thought wistfully of the departing henchmen. If only they'd discovered him, he could be involved in a uncultured brawl right now -- 

"You escaped your cell," the Driver continued. "Where are your companions?"

"I'm not sure," Kon said. "I sent Anita for help. Bart --" Kon hesitated. "I lost track, somewhat --"

"The vampyre I've been mistaken for no doubt," the Driver sounded just as grim as he looked. "Follow me."

It never occurred to Kon to disobey, or even ask where they were going.

He had misgivings as they rounded the corner where the two sentries were, but the Driver pulled a capsule from his voluminous cloak. "Hold your breath," he cautioned Kon, and threw it. The sentries were asleep before they'd even had the chance to draw their weapons. 

"Nice --" Kon started but a glare from the Driver quelled him. 

"Come on."

With only minor disturbances, Kon and the Driver made their way to a large room that seemed to be Cobblepot's centre of operations. A circle had been painted on the ceiling, and the rest of the room was busy with men, equipment, and the lingering smell of decomposition. No wonder. There were benches placed all around the room, linked by wires and painted symbols to the giant circle on the ceiling. Most were empty, but a few still held their original occupant.

"The missing corpses --" Kon swallowed. "Cobblepot could teach Frankenstein a thing or two. This is --"

"An assembly line for producing zhombies," his companion said with absolute certainty. "Superior zhombies with the ability to follow orders and fight with the strength of the being they're created from. He's amassed an army of them and he's set them loose --" He paused. "His object? Buckingham palace."

"Is that it?" Kon eyed the set up with a feeling of disappointment. "Talk about your unfulfilled expectations. If it were my army of superior undead, I wouldn't be wasting my time with --" 

The Driver somehow grew grimmer. 

"But then I am a rude colonial with no idea of the weight of these situations," Kon finished hastily. "I'm sure it's all very terrible and English."

"The foundation is busy, trying to stop the zhombies there. Queen's pack has joined them. We can't expect Miss Fite to secure aid -- if indeed she was able to make it out of the mansion undetected. Do you know anything about undoing Voduin?" The Driver asked, unamused. 

Kon shook his head. "Anita handles that. I'm usually just there to assist."

"In that case I'm going to do what I can with reversing the enchantment. You create a diversion."

"A diversion?" Kon asked, put in mind of Drake at his most imperious. 

"Precisely," the Driver said, making his way back into the shadows of the passage. "If you can't even manage that much, you have no business with Clark's name."

Kon froze. 

"You can't -- what do you know about my cousin?" He demanded, angrily making after the Driver. But the man had vanished. 

Not only that but Kon's outburst had drawn the attention of the room's occupants. Kon stood his ground, turning to meet the men. If it was a diversion the Driver wanted --

Letting go was satisfying, if nothing else, though it was doubtful Cobblepot's men would have agreed. Kon slammed the two he was fighting with together and let them fall in an unconscious heap at his feet. "Well?" he demanded. "Who's next?"

Cobblepot's men made no move. They'd discovered early on that their guns had no effect on Kon and they waited at a safe distance, weapons trained on him. 

"Nrk -- Never send a human to do the job of the inhuman," Cobblepot appeared, flanked by the same cloaked woman Kon had seen at the warehouse. "Well, Mr Kent. Enjoying my hospitality?"

"Far be it from me to appear ungrateful," Kon replied, "but I have to admit your servants performance leaves something to be desired." He prodded one of the limp forms at his feet for emphasis. 

"Is that so? Well -- I think we might have something more to your liking." There was nothing polished or even civilised about Cobblepot's grin. "The reserves are in place? Then now."

Kon had just enough time to be worried before Cobblepot's companion raised her arms and the circle on the ceiling crackled with that same blue light. This time the intensity was near blinding, and he swore, covering his eyes. 

"See how you like my zhombies rrrawk," Cobblepot observed savagely. "The carriage is ready? Then Miss Roth, let us depart."

Kon heard the doors click shut and bolts slide into place, but his vision had yet to clear. A hand grabbed his shoulder and Kon shoved the zhombie back -- only to find it moving back at him with the speed of one living -- minus the pain that anyone living would have felt from the blow. More moved towards him, showing none of the hesitation or fear of Cobblepot's other servants. If each one possessed only half the strength of Grundy, Kon was in grave trouble. He swung out, taking the offensive. 

Strength superior to any human's only went so far against beings with strengths of their own -- and no ability to feel any weakness. Kon swore as he was bourne down under the collective mass of the zhombies. Perhaps they were unable to kill him, but constrained as he was, he had no chance of aiding his friends --

"Mr Kent! Don't move!"

Mia? What was she doing here -- and what business did she have tendering spectacularly unhelpful advice? "I couldn't move if I wanted --" Kon caught a glimpse through the throng of murderous zhombies of Mia taking aim with what looked like a harpooner's gun and froze in place. 

The metal barb took two zhombies down, and the resulting imbalance allowed Kon to struggle free -- and just in time, as one of his would be captors burst into flame. 

"Anita, not that I'm ungrateful, but don't you think that was a little close --"

"It's nothing you couldn't take, mon. Out of my way." Anita drew another handful of powder out of the pouch she carried, and blew it towards the zhombies following after Kon. She raised her hands, chanting, and within seconds they were alight. 

It wasn't living flesh that burned but the smell all the same -- 

Kon was only too glad to sink to his feet behind one of the room's benches. 

"Mr Kent -- are you all right?" Mia lay a hand on his shoulder, looking at him with such concern that Kon, conscious of the Vampyre's touch, was mortified. 

"Fine," he said quickly. "But you -- what are you doing here? I was told that Lord Queen's pack was joining the fighting at the palace."

"They left me behind at the house -- my health," Mia explained. "But when Miss Fite arrived with her message -- I couldn't very well turn my back on such a true friend."

Kon had never felt such an utter cad. "Miss Dearden--"

"Hush," Mia said, and kissed him. 

"What was dat you said before about timing, mon?"

Kon carefully brushed Mia's hair out of her face. She looked uncommonly pale, but her complexion was rosy, and her eyes bright. She'd never looked so beautiful. "There's something you should know --" he began slowly. 

"The vampyre? It's hard to deceive a werewolf's nose."

Kon's heart sank. "Then you must --"

"Despise you? Far from it. I ... haven't been entirely honest with you myself," Mia swallowed. "Mr Kent, I--"

"Some help? Dere's only so much I can do with dese zhombies --" Anita's complaint ended in a shriek and Kon looked up to see that she'd just barely managed to dodge a zhombie that had escaped her magic. 

"I do beg your leave, Miss Dearden --" Kon scrambled over the bench, intent on wresting the zhombie away from Anita.

"But of course, Mr Kent." Mia followed, crossbow in hand. 

They made short work of that zhombie and were busily dispatching those that followed, when the circle above them began to glow. 

"What now?" Kon demanded. "They can't be making more zhombies --"

"Stay away from de benches," Anita commanded. "Anyting connected to de circle -- don't touch it."

Kon carefully guided Mia to the centre of the room. "Do you have any idea what they're trying to do," he started and then all the lights in the room went dead. 

There was muffled cursing and yells and a loud crash and suddenly the lights were on and Kon was staring at the battered and unconscious form of Cobblepot at his feet. 

"What the d----," he started. 

"See, Conner?" Slow and self-satisfied, the Vampyre appeared in the now open doorway. "I kept my end of the bargain -- now it's your turn."

"Kon," Anita said urgently. "What does he mean?"

"Anita, Mia, get out of here," Kon said in a low voice, giving them a push towards the door. "My turn?" he said, turning back to face the Vampyre. "But I already gave you what you wanted --"

The Vampyre laughed. "If you wanted a one-time deal, you should have specified," he said. "As it is, you're mine now, Conner."

"Kon," Anita said, growing horror in her voice. "Don't tell me you made a blood pact with a vampyre -- did I teach you nothing, mon?"

"It seemed like the thing to do at the time," Kon protested. He gulped as the Vampyre, all undetected, wound himself around Kon's body, nuzzling the knife cut below his collar. 

"All mine," he purred, moving in to -- freeze as if he'd just been stung. 

The ceiling above them rattled, and the paint of the circle began flaking off, dissolving as it fell. The lights flickered again, and Kon wondered if they would have to make a hasty exit. The Vampyre hissed painfully, drawing Kon's attention back to his immediate predicament, as it clawed at him in a futile effort to ward off whatever was working upon it before buckling under it, sagging against Kon limp and to all appearances lifeless. 

Kon felt he could be forgiven for letting the Vampyre fall. He was trying to cope with a lot right then. 

"What just happened?"

"I think de Voduin is undone," Anita said. "Really, Kon, of all de boneheaded tings you've done in your life, dis --"

"I think it was very noble of Mr Kent," Mia said hotly, doubling up under a sudden attack of coughing. 

Kon hurried to her side. "Miss Dearden --"

Anita huffed. "I don't believe it," she complained. "All dis and you still have time to --"

Bart's limp form coughed and they all tensed as he stirred, sitting up with a confused expression. "What the b----- was in that wine?" he asked groggily. "For that matter -- what is this place? And when did Mia join us?"

"Bartholemew?" Anita asked. "You don't remember?"

"All I remember," Bart said, slowly making his way to his feet. "Is dancing with Tim and -- what happened? Where is he?"

"De Voduin's lifted," Anita concluded triumphantly. "De others should be recovering now --"

"Tim!" Bart took off up the stairs like a shot. 

Anita followed, but not even the sight of Bart restored to his usual self could lift Kon's spirits. He turned to Miss Dearden, still recovering from her coughing fit. 

"Let's leave this place," he suggested. "Some fresh night air might help your --" He paused as Mia lowered the hand she'd held to her mouth and he caught a glimpse of red at the sleeve. "Mia, you're --"

"I was going to tell you," Mia said softly. "I just couldn't find the words. Kon -- I am sorry."


	32. The penultimate chapter (of penultimate destiny)

Mia and Kon made their way upstairs to chaos. Enough time had passed that the Foundation members had arrived and were attempting to take charge of the situation. Cobblepot's men were relieved of their weapons, and Kon caught sight of Grayson conferring with a man in a long, black coat what measures could be taken against them. 

"Even if we can't prove it, Cobblepot's actions were tantamount to treason," the young man was arguing. "He attacked the palace." 

"A wave of zhombies attacked the palace," the man returned. His back was to Kon, but his voice was very familiar. "There's nothing to link what happened there with Cobblepot. There's no case we could bring against him that would hold up in court --"

"A human court, perhaps." Dent, recovered from the spell, joined them. "But not ours. He has broken our laws, abused our trust -- give him to us."

There were shouts of agreement from the recovering crowd -- and what a crowd it was. They'd already bared claw, teeth and fang, all the marks of their unearthly nature -- now they'd gone a step further, letting their darkness appear, plain for all to see. Cobblepot, caged, drew back worriedly. 

Kon turned away. 

"There's Bart," Mia said. "And Miss Fite. They don't look happy."

"No," Kon agreed with a sinking feeling. "They do not."

Drake was alone in still lying unconscious on the dance floor. Bart knelt by his side, so focused on Drake's still form that he didn't even appear to have noticed Kon and Mia's presence. 

"Dis isn't good," Anita informed them in a whisper. "De others -- well, dey had dere magics to sustain dem. Drake is only human -- de spell fed on his very life."

"Is he going to be okay?" Kon asked and Anita shook her head. 

"I don't know. Voduin having an effect such as dis -- it's anyone's guess."

"Tim's going to be all right," Bart said flatly. "He made a promise."

Kon bit his lip and knelt to Drake's side. Bart and Anita had already thought of removing the elements of his disguise that might have prevented him from breathing, and Kon fancied he saw improvement. "His breathing sounds more natural," he assured Bart. "And I think he's gained some colour --"

"Step away from him," Grayson had arrived, with him the man in black. 

Bart unconsciously gripped Kon's arm as they conducted their own examination of Drake in silence. After several tense minutes they stood, lifting Drake's form between them. 

"Where are you taking him?" Bart demanded sounding almost panicked. 

Grayson spared him a glare. "Don't you think you've done enough tonight?" 

His companion silenced him with a look. "He'll receive the finest medical opinion that London can provide," the man who could only be the Director told Bart, his tone more reprimanding than reassuring. "The Foundation looks after it's own."

Bart was sufficiently daunted not to brave any further questions, at least until they reached the entranceway, where the coach that had carried them to the Ball stood waiting. 

"Can't I --" he began, watching as Grayson handed Drake up into the coach and took up the Driver's seat. 

"No," the Director answered. "And any attempt on your part at seeing him until such time as we allow it will be regarded as acting in a way detrimental to Drake's recovery, something we will take every pain to prevent." He nodded to Grayson. "Drive on."

Kon belatedly realised that this left them without transport. "Wait," he said. "Please. Miss Dearden's health -- you mustn't --"

He was ignored. 

"De Foundation looks out for it's own," Anita said. "But dat's all it looks out for."

Mia squeezed Kon's arm. "Don't trouble yourself on my part," she said. "Anita and I took Ollie's carriage here. I can drive back myself."

Although she sounded assured, she was beginning to show sign of fatigue. Kon shook his head. "Nonsense," he said. "Come on, we'll take you home."

Anita and Bart talked in low voices in the body of the trap, and Mia rested her head against Kon's shoulder as he guided the horses through London's streets. Although the position left her more exposed to the cool night air, she'd chosen it over remaining in the cab. 

"You'll catch a chill," Kon chided her, keeping his voice low enough that Anita and Bart wouldn't hear them. 

"What does it matter if I do?" Mia responded in kind. "Each change takes more out of me. The next full moon will be my last."

"I'm sorry," Kon said miserably. "If I'd known -- I wouldn't have presumed."

"That's precisely why I didn't tell you," Mia said. "Can you forgive a woman's weak impulse? I wanted to be loved before I died -- even a little."

Kon said nothing, but gathered the reins in one hand, so he could slip the other around Mia's waist. She didn't protest. 

"You're a good man, Kon."

"You can say that, even knowing --"

"A vampyre's not something many can withstand," Mia said softly, against Kon's neck. "You gave yourself for others. I ... I was willing to give myself for money, for bare survival ... a factory wage isn't enough to live on," she whispered. "And I was alone. They said that earning a wage between the sheets was easier work than standing at the machines making them. As it happened, my first customer didn't want a girl, he wanted a meal."

"Were?" Kon asked, feeling sick. 

"I managed to escape but the virus had been passed on. He wasn't too happy neither at me getting away, made it his business to hunt me -- that's when I came to Ollie's attention. The rest is, as they say, history." Mia sighed, pulling herself upright as they drew up in front of Lord Queen's residence. "Kon, I can only imagine what you think of me now. I only hope that you'll forgive me for keeping my past from you this long --"

Kon didn't reply. He was too busy kissing her. 

"I believe the idea behind leaving you here, Mia, was that it would be restful," Lord Queen said, as the four of them stood in his drawing room, having just concluded the summary of the night's events. 

"I have to admit that I'm more than ready to call it a night," Mia confessed, smothering a yawn. "By your leave." 

"We should get going too," Kon said. "I think it's been a long night for all of us."

"It'll be light before you get home. Much more sensible for you to spend the night here," Ollie decided. 

"I'm not sure," Kon started, but Anita decided things. 

"No use trying t' meet curfew now," she said. "It's very kind of you to offer, Lord Queen."

"One of King-Smith's girl's? I'll let her know where you are before she alerts Scotland Yard to your disapearance," Ollie said. "Connor'll show you to your rooms. Bart, Conner, too young trouble makers such as yourselves would have no objection to sharing a room?"

"None at all," Kon assured him. The prospect of any bed was enough, and he was concerned about Bart. 

Bart was moody and silent, only kicking off his boats, tie and dress coat before climbing between the blankets. 

Kon bit his lip, settling on the bed in his shirt and pants. The Vampyre was still vivid in his mind, but he could find little in common between the memory of that unsettling touch and Bart now. "Bart?" he asked. "Are you ... ?"

"They didn't just use our strengths to power their zhombies," Bart said softly. "They took our minds as well. I'm remembering ... being inside the zhombie, directing it and being directed in turn -- it hurt people."

Kon hesitated, then patted his shoulder. "Cobblepot hurt people -- you didn't."

"I know. But I still feel culpable," Bart sighed. "Tim ... Tim would know how to put it right. But Tim's ..."

"You heard what the Director said. Best medical care in London."

"I know what he said. But it doesn't seem real. Too much happened too quickly -- the only thing I can remember is Tim so still ..."

It seemed safe to assume that Bart didn't remember what had happened. Kon sighed, patting Bart's hair. "He'll be fine. Drake's nothing, if not an obstinate bastard. Do you really think he's going to let us live tonight down?"

Bart didn't smile. "Thank you, Kon."

He was gone by the time Kon made it downstairs the next morning. 

"Two pots of coffee, both with your name on it -- you can't say I'm not good to you, mon."

Kon had drunk enough coffee to be aware that Anita was more than usually cheerful. "You're in good spirits."

"I've had some good news, mon. You're looking at a liberated woman."

"Liberated?"

"Expelled from de finishing school. My trunks will be sent round some time dis morning, and I've wired Father to arrange tickets for me on the next steamship out of here. I'm going home -- and not a moment too soon."

This was a blow. "You're leaving?" Kon asked, forgetting coffee in his dismay. 

"Oh, Kon. I will miss you -- but you're a big enough boy to take care of yourself. Or -- you could come with me. Finish your thesis on de boat, present it in person to Professor Harper when we dock."

It was a tempting prospect -- but Kon shook his head. "I can't," he said. 

Anita didn't press him. "It's gonna be a long voyage without you, mon. But I'll survive."

"You're welcome to stay here till your ship leaves," Lord Queen told Anita. "You too, Conner. With Drake ill, you won't want to intrude."

Kon nodded. "I was wondering what I should do," he admitted. "But I'd like to consult Mrs Mac first. She hasn't heard what's happened yet."

As it happened, Kon was incorrect.

"The Foundation rang to let me know the young master was recovering from a serious injury," Drake's housekeeper told Kon, over a cup of tea. "Didn't say why or how, of course, but they expect he'll be home within the week."

"That's good news," Kon said with feeling. "And what will you do in the meantime?"

"Carry on as usual," Mrs Drake said. "I'm not about to let young Timothy come home to an empty house, you know. All the same, it will be quiet."

"Lord Queen's invited me to stay at his residence," Kon said cautiously. "I don't want to be a burden, and with Drake needing to recover --"

"Nonsense -- you, a burden? I've half a mind to let that Lord know what I think of his invitation," Mrs Mac snorted scornfully. "No, Mr Kent, you're staying where you are."

So that settled that. 

Kon called at Bart's apartment several times, but his friend was not home -- and Kon had even broken in to check. The apartment showed signs of being lived in, but nothing that would point him towards Bart. 

It was night, four days after the ball, when he came back. Kon was trying not to think about how tired Mia had been that afternoon by working on his thesis, but chapter four was a struggle from start to finish, and he heard the window shut as clearly as if it had been in his room. Mrs Mac had gone to bed hours since, and Kon followed the sound upstairs, ready to investigate. 

"Bart?"

"Kon!" Bart looked surprised -- and not a little guilty. He'd curled up in Drake's bed, and -- if Kon wasn't mistaken -- had helped himself to Drake's nightshirt in the process. "I didn't know you were here still --"

"Keeping Mrs Mac company." Kon shut the door behind him and placed his candle on Drake's bedside. "Bart --"

"I miss him," Bart started defensively. "Maybe it's foolhardy and weak but I -- I need him."

"I know," Kon said, sitting on the bed. "Come here."

Bart was ready to curl up against Kon's side without a second thought."Tell me again how obstinate he is?"

Kon snorted, stroking Bart's hair. "You know that better than anyone," he said. "After all, I'm not the one who's in l -- who feels for the man."

"You meant to say love," Bart accused. "That's how different we are. Tim and I -- we'd never dream of using the word."

Kon remembered an old pain. "Never?"

"Love's for people who aren't like us," said Bart. "Wrong. I've never been quite good enough and ... I don't know when it happened, but someone broke Tim too. You -- sometimes I want to drag you down to our level, make you just as wrong. Others -- I don't want you to change, ever. You're still so -- naive."

"You flatter me," said Kon unimpressed, but Bart sat up to look at him properly. 

"It's a good thing," he said. "I can't really explain it. You -- I hope you're never broken."

Kon thought it might be too late. 

"Another time, another place," Bart said, resting his head against Kon's side again. "I might have used the word love on you."

"Another time, another place, I might have used it back," Kon said, settling back against the head board. 

"You'll make Mia happy?"

"I'll do all I can," Kon said seriously. "I trust you'll stop Drake's head from getting too big for his shoulders?"

The smile Bart flashed him was brilliant.


	33. All bad things must come to an end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm never really very good at endings, and there was a lot of things to cover with this one. I've been looking at it and looking at it, and I'm at that point where you can't tell if what you've written is clear or only clear to you -- so if you've got any questions about anything, let me know in the comments! Thanks.
> 
> Also, this has been a great ride -- both the first time round, and picking things up again now. Huge thank you to pikakao, jamjar, bibliokat and brown_betty for your input and encouragement, and everyone who's ever commented -- I come back to the comments for inspiration and encouragement a lot, so pretty much every message you've left has been a help to me. Thank you.

Bart stirred sleepily, blinking at the sunshine that had strayed across the pillow, and fallen upon his face. "Nngh."

"Morning," Kon said. 

Bart blinked at him suspiciously. "What the -- how are you awake?"

"Didn't fall asleep," Kon explained. He stretched as Bart sat up. "Rested?" he asked, eyeing Bart for signs of fatigue -- he suspected Bart had not been taking good care of himself in the time he'd been gone. 

"Well enough, I -- almost forgot!" And before Kon could blink Bart had sprung out of bed and was attacking Drake's wardrobe. 

"Lost something?" he asked, smirking as Bart sent dressing gown and shirts flying. Something fell at Kon's feet and he blinked, belatedly recognising it as the nightshirt Bart had been wearing. 

"Oh no, nothing like that," Bart stuck his head out of the wardrobe to give Kon a teasing grin and a glimpse of bare shoulder. "I'm just borrowing a suit."

Kon fled.

"I thought we'd see you today," Mrs Mac approved as Bart came down to breakfast, wearing one of Drake's most serious suits. "Is that --?"

Bart nodded. "It seemed ... appropriate," he said, taking refuge behind a plate of toast. 

Mrs Mac nodded. "I think he'd appreciate the gesture. I'll be going later, of course. Once I've got dinner on. Will you take Mr Kent with you?"

"Take me where?" Kon asked, confused. 

"To see Tim's parents of course," Bart told him. 

It was the churchyard that Bart had hit him with a shovel in, what seemed like an age ago. A combined gravestone, austere and very proper. Two names and a single date. 

"His parents," said Kon, watching as Bart placed a bunch of flowers on the grave. 

"He was very young when it happened," Bart said. "He never talks about it. I sometimes wonder if this wasn't it -- the thing that changed him."

Kon nodded. 

"He never said anything," Bart said. "But when he brought me here, the first time ... that's how I knew that we were ..." He trailed off, but Kon found his meaning clear enough. 

It was somehow too personal to look at Bart, so Kon looked at the gravestone instead. The place was still, quiet bar the two of them. It was only a matter of weeks now, and then Mia --

There was the rattle of a carriage pulling up outside the churchyard gate, and the gate opened to admit the Director and Grayson, wearing almost identical black suits, and between them, pale from his ordeal but able to walk unassisted, Drake. 

Bart caught his breath, his entire body taut with suppressed sensation, but Drake didn't greet them -- none of the three of them did. Kon put his hand on Bart's shoulder and drew him back, and they waited at a deferential distance as the three men paid their respects. None of them spoke, the Director letting his hand rest on Drake's shoulder briefly, Grayson thumping him on the back, and then they left Drake in quiet contemplation of the stone. 

There was something -- Kon watched intently as Drake approached them, some of Bart's acute excitement communicating to him. It was more than that. Kon fancied that Drake's walk had none of it's usual arrogance, and his expression as he spoke was guarded, almost ... shy?

"You're here," he said to Bart. "I was hoping you would be."

"I wouldn't forget," said Bart, also cautious. 

Seeing that they weren't going to get anywhere by themselves, Kon interjected. "Drake," he said. "How do you feel? Are you --"

Drake held up a hand. "Please," he said. "Tim."

Kon didn't get the chance to reply. Bart had thrown himself at Drake, laughing delightedly. 

There followed one of the strangest weeks of Kon's life. 

Bart and Drake were like people transformed. Shorn of his usual mocking edge, Drake's intelligence and humour manifested itself more subtly, and Kon felt he could converse unafraid that his smallest error in judgement would be turned against him. Bart, simply, was happy, and with nothing to check his good spirits, spent the majority of the week in gay abandon. They were seldom far from each other, and so content that Kon, even as he was relieved for them, found himself feeling oddly discontent. What time he didn't spend with Mia, Kon devoted to his thesis -- the only constant that still remained. 

But it didn't last. 

They were sitting down to breakfast one day, Tim in his shirt sleeves -- and he was Tim now, in ways Kon could never have hoped to explain -- waving a piece of toast at Bart as they argued the literary merits of Bart's latest favourite novel -- when the phone rang. 

"It's Mr Grayson for you," Mrs Mac announced. "I told him you were having breakfast, but he insisted."

"It'll be important then," Tim said, ruffling Bart's hair as he passed. "I expect my toast to still be on my plate when I return." They heard him pick up the phone. "Morning, Dick -- no, I can't say that I have -- I see," he finished darkly. He squared his shoulders, answered "I'll join you at once," and Drake was once more in the house. "Ghoul," he announced, snagging his toast away from Bart. "Got to go."

Bart sighed. "I knew it wouldn't last," he said. "All the same ... working on your paper, Kon?"

Kon shook his head. "I thought I'd call on Miss Dearden."

"Again?" Bart shook his head amused. "You must have spent a small fortune on grapes this week."

"Yes, well," Kon said. "I shouldn't keep her waiting."

Mia had passed a difficult few days, and was confined to a sofa in the longue. When Kon arrived, Lord Queen was stoking the fire for her. 

"Was wondering when you'd turn up," he announced. "I'll leave you two alone, but Conner -- a word before you depart?"

"Of course," Kon said, pulling up a chair beside Mia. 

"He's probably going to sound you out on your expectations," Mia told Kon, amused. 

"Isn't it a little late for that?" Kon asked. 

"Possibly. But for all his progressive thinking, Ollie can be hopelessly old fashioned some times. Now, what's this you've got?"

"My thesis," Kon said. "This is the draft I'm going to submit. I'm taking it in to get it bound this afternoon." He placed it in her hands. "I know it's not much but ... I was hoping you'd consent to let me dedicate it to you." 

"Like -- a proper book? Mr Kent -- Kon, I'm honoured." Mia looked at the papers in her lap, flustered. 

"The university keeps a copy of every thesis submitted in the library. My name and yours, linked, as long as there's a library at Carnegie. I thought --" Kon bit his lip. "Well, you'll want to look it over, make sure you like it --"

"Of course, I like it. I -- hold me?"

"Normally, of course, I view any attachments my pack forms to outsiders with great suspicion," Lord Queen told Kon turning over Kon's draft at his office desk. "But you're something of an exception. We knew about you beforehand of course, Roy's letters from his Uncle mentioned you, and then you were friends with Bartholemew, who for all his faults, is very picky with who he trusts. As if that wasn't enough to recommend you, your conduct with Mia has been nothing short of explempary -- I don't say this often, Conner, but I like you. Anytime, you need it, the pack has your back."

His precious thesis was duly bound, and a copy placed aboard the express steamer to the States. Kon walked back from the shipping office, feeling strangely at a loss. He couldn't leave -- not with the full moon a little over a week hence. But until then -- 

"Mrs Mac?" Kon asked in some surprise, as he turned down the street to find the redoutable housekeeper loading her trunks into a waiting cab. "Are you going somewhere? Let me help you with those."

"Thank you, dear." Mrs Mac shook her head. "I've given notice, Mr Kent," she confided. "Nearly breaks my heart it does -- viewed Master Timothy as my own son and all. But I'm a god-fearing woman, and there are some things I can't abide --" She sighed. "Still, I don't feel nearly so bad, leaving him with you. There's a roast in the oven, Mr Kent. You'll want to light the fire around four."

And she climbed into the cab and was gone. 

Kon made his way up the steps with a heavy heart -- he was not keen on breaking this news. "Drake? You home?"

"Upstairs."

Kon had a very good idea why Mrs Mac had chosen to leave. Drake was sitting on the end of his bed, his smug air firmly back in place as he brushed Bart's hair. Bart was sitting at his feet, looking about as self-satisfied as Kon had ever seen him -- and wearing the dress.

"It had to happen one day," Drake said. "Still, I'll miss her."

"This does leave us in a bit of a bind," Bart said. "Who's going to make you toast in the mornings."

"You forget," Tim assured him. "We have Conner."

This was news. "I beg your pardon?"

"Tim and I have been talking about you," Bart said, giving him a grin that was totally assured, nevermind the ruffled silk. "The fact that you've stuck with us this far -- it says something doesn't it."

"It says something about my sanity all right."

"We're very fond of you, Conner -- in our way," Drake said, amused. "And we wanted you to know you have a place here at any time. And if you offer to keep house for us at the same time, so much the better."

Knowing he was being used didn't make the slightest bit of difference. But even scraping burnt toast off the grate and arguing over the price of apples in the London markets didn't fill all his time, and Kon was forced to fall back on the old standard of the unhappy lover -- writing bad poetry.

"You are in a bad way," Drake observed, flipping through one of Kon's notebooks. "Great Scott -- are those rhyming couplets?"

"It's traditional for sonnets," Kon told him.

"Gad," Drake said, putting the book down. "I've seen enough. I'm worried about you, Conner -- what's the problem? Lord Queen's decided you're not progressive enough for his girl? I'm willing to buy you a subscription to one of those awful social communities if it would help your cause --"

"Nothing like that," Kon said. 

"It's surely not the fact that you're not a were -- you're not are you? Lycanthropy's --"

"No fear of that," Kon said. "I'm abnormal enough."

"Well," said Drake at a loss. "What is the matter? Bart and I are both concerned --"

There was knock at the door, and Bart's voice sounded in the hallway.

"Roy. This is a surprise --"

"Kon," said Roy, urgently. "Where's --"

"Here," Kon joined them in the hall as fast as he could. Roy's expression was grimly serious, and Kon felt a sudden premonition. "She's not --"

"She had another attack. A bad one. The doctor's with her now but he says -- this could be it." 

Even knowing it was coming, it still hurt. 

"She wants to see you," Roy said. "We have to hurry."

"Kon," said Bart bewildered. "What's going on? Is something wrong with Mia? I'll come too --"

"Sorry, Bart -- this is a pack matter," Roy said. "Got your coat, Kon?"

Mia was indeed fading fast. Roy and Kon arrived to meet the doctor leaving. "As I've just told Lord Queen, I've done all I can to make her comfortable. There's nothing more we can do."

Nothing, but say goodbyes. 

"You knew," said Bart at the funeral. "Knew and didn't say anything."

"She didn't want a fuss," Kon explained. "Made me promise not to say a word." 

"I think you could have told me," Bart said, but Drake squeezed his shoulder warningly. 

"I'm sorry, Conner. If we'd known --"

Kon nodded, looking up as they were joined by Roy. 

"I'm going," the were announced. "Got a ticket on a liner to the States. My Uncle wrote -- he's got a need for someone with a good nose for trouble. Seems like something's taken an interest in the Carnegie's collection of artifacts. He said I should pass on word to you -- I believe his exact words were 'We could use a likely fellow like Kent -- and if this invisible thief isn't up his alley, I don't know what is."

"Invisible?" Kon asked. 

"So what do you say?" 

"Professor Harper's certainly got a strong hold on your gratitude," Drake said cautiously. "And we wouldn't want to keep you from furthering your career."

"Yes we would," Bart said indignantly. "Ow!"

Drake had kicked him to shut him up. "We certainly wouldn't want to influence your decision in any way."

"Thanks, Drake," said Kon. "But I made my decision a while ago. It's good of you to offer," he said to Roy. "And I hope you'll remember me warmly to your Uncle. But I'm staying." 

Roy raised his hat. "You say that now," he said. "But you'll come home. I know it -- and when you do, look me up?"

"Count on it." They shook hands.

Bart and Drake followed Kon out onto the street. 

"When you say staying --"

"You mean with us? Don't you?"

Kon halted them both with a stern look. "Let's make no bones about this. Since I met the two of you en route to the Castle Cadmus, you've made my life complicated, confusing -- at times, wretched. You've not only lied to me, you've endangered me more times then I can count. What kind of man -- or indeed, friend -- would I be if I didn't try to repay the favour?"

It appeared that he'd got the last word for once -- Bart was confused and even Drake wasn't sure which way to take his statement. Kon raised his hat to them and kept walking. It was only a small victory -- but with those two, he had to take his triumphs where he could.


End file.
